


Lockdown

by johnwatso, Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID-19, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John loves it, M/M, Parentlock, Quarantine, Reunion, Reunion Sex, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sex Toys, Sherlock is up to no good, being soft, bored, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: The world is in lockdown due to Covid-19. This is how Sherlock and John spend their time.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 139
Kudos: 322





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

John is sitting in his chair, watching telly when he finds himself with an armful of consulting detective. Sherlock _harrumph_ s down into John’s lap, his long, long legs dangling over the side of John’s chair, and his torso and face twisted and curled up to fit quite snugly under John’s chin.

“Bored,” Sherlock says in his now-familiar monotone.

“Hmm. You’ve said that already,” John counters. Because he has. He’s said it every fifteen minutes or so since they’ve been on lockdown. And he’s showing no signs of letting up. And the most infuriating point remains that John can’t find it in himself to mind - not _really_ , anyway.

“What’re you watching?” Sherlock asks into his chest.

“ _Survivor_.”

“What are they doing?”

“Shh. Watch and you’ll find out.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

“Or I could rub your head while you find out and let me watch in peace.”

“Or that. Yes.”

John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock’s eyes drift half-closed, half-focused on the old episode of _Survivor_. John can’t believe how his life has turned around. A few months ago, he was miserable, alone in his flat in the suburbs and now, he has a lap full of the love of his life, who’s currently almost squirming in contentment.

Not that it hadn’t taken a whole lot of work to get here. He remembers that day like it was yesterday: he had come to 221B to tell Sherlock how he had felt and, maddeningly, of course, _of course_ , Sherlock had beaten him to it.

Now, though, they’re happy. More than. Even though they’re stuck indoors for the most part (except for trips to the shops and when John is called in to do locum work), they find ways to entertain each other. Or, rather, Sherlock finds ways to drive them both ‘round the bend.

Right now, the man in question is lifting up John’s t-shirt and placing his cold hands on his stomach. John sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden contact, surprisingly enjoying the contrast of Sherlock’s freezing digits. 

“Joooooohn,” Sherlock whines, a petulant child as ever.

“What is it, love?”

“Bored,” he whispers, and John knows what that means. It’s different from the other _bored_ , it’s its own special _bored_ with its own special solution.

“And what would you like me to do about it?” John teases, even as he’s unfolding Sherlock in his arms to kiss him senseless.

“Take me to bed. Do _something_ ,” Sherlock teases back.

“How about,” John murmurs, low and dangerous, “I take you apart right here in this chair? In _my_ chair. How about that?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, he just flips himself over, straddling John’s thighs where he sits. He leans down for a kiss, long, slow, and languid. John finds himself more than responsive, but he wants to switch gears, wants to make Sherlock regret ever complaining about how bored he is. 

Without disrupting their kiss, he grabs Sherlock under his arse and lifts them both up to standing. Before Sherlock can so much as protest, he turns them around and lowers him onto his chair, lowering himself in the process and not stopping until his knees hit the ground. He unties the string of sherlock’s pyjama pants and pulls them down, along with his pants, in one swift motion.

“Still bored?” he breathes onto Sherlock’s already-hardening cock.

“Johnnnn,” Sherlock whines, head thrown back already.

John rubs soothing hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs until Sherlock looks down at him. Their eyes meet, and it’s electric. It’s like falling in love all over again. His stomach hurts with all the affection he feels for the man before him.

“Hey,” he whispers, stilling his hands.

“Mmm.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock blushes lightly, reaching down and lifting John up off the floor and on top of him for a messy, urgent kiss. He arches his back, grinding his cock up onto John’s still-clothed one.

“Mmm… hang on,” John stills him, and unzips himself, shucking off his jeans and pants in as little time as humanly possible. “Now where were we?” he asks, settling back down and kissing a hard, bruising path down Sherlock’s jaw and neck, sucking a stinging love bite right next to his Adam's apple.

Sherlock is writhing beneath him, moans getting louder as their cocks blessedly come together, again and again, slick and filthy. John breaks off of Sherlock’s neck to lick his hand, and joins their cocks together, jerking them off in unison. He knows Sherlock loves this, loves to watch them joined like this, with John’s hand covering them both. As he knows Sherlock will do, he looks down and groans, thrusting up into the tight circle of John’s hand. 

“Come for me, love,” he says, and, apparently, that’s all it takes to completely undo Sherlock Holmes. He spurts over their stomachs, spurring on John’s own orgasm, which follows, just as messy, just as satisfying.

John leans his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as they get their breaths back.

“Now, what is this _Survivor_ thing about?” Sherlock asks innocently.

Their chuckles soon override the sound of the telly, booming in the sitting room as the sun sets outside.

He’s never been so grateful for Sherlock’s boredom before.


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes up alone, the other side of the bed barely warm. In the few weeks they’ve been together, truly, wonderfully together, John had gotten used to waking up with Sherlock all over him, which is quite amazing. But the quarantine has changed more than one of Sherlock’s habits. More like all of them. The past few days have been a challenge in many ways, the two of them trying to come up with different ways to busy themselves. Meaning having quite a lot of sex, actually. _But apparently not this morning_ , John thinks, getting out of bed and putting on a jumper.

“There you are,” he says, finding Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, focused on another one of his journals. “Sleep well?”

“Good enough.”

John plants a kiss on his naked shoulder. “What are you writing?”

“A list of first times.”

“Oh, sounds very inter- Oh, I see,” John smiles, peeking at the title. “Rosie’s first time experiment?”

“I figured, since we’re stuck here, we could guide her through some exercises and help her achieve some of these goals.” 

“First word? First step? She’s a bit young still, you know.”

Sherlock looks up at him. “Well, we might never go out again, so we have time.”

John rolls his eyes, “Don’t be like that.”

“Eleven days, John. We haven’t been out for eleven days.”

“Not true,” John replies, going to get some coffee. “I’ve been to work a couple of times, and you went out for groceries, remember?”

“Dreadful time, how could time I forget?”

John comes to sit next to him, reaching for the journal to read the complete list. “Some of these could be a challenge, definitely would help you kill time. But remember, pa-”

“Patience, yes, I remember.”

“Well, you can add another first that’s happening right now,” John sighs, looking at the time. “First time she sleeps in so late.”

Sherlock smiles, “See, she’s already committed to the experiment.”

“I think I’m gonna start a list of first times, too,” John says, smirking. “A completely different one.”

“Finally,” Sherlock replies, shifting closer. “I knew you would catch on eventually.”

John kicks him under the table, “Cock.”

“Here’s one for you,” Sherlock says with a smile, handing him another journal. “A good experiment deserves a good journal.”

“I might just keep this one private, you know,” John teases.

“And how would you test any of it?”

“I’d find a way,” John replies, “Make a list just for me, things I could do on my own.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Sherlock asks, a sneaking foot slowly rubbing up and down John’s leg under the table.

John is about to reply when Rosie starts to call from upstairs, Sherlock already writing down the exact time in his journal. John plants another kiss on his shoulder before heading up to Rosie’s room, finding her standing up in her bed and calling for him.

“Get ready sweetheart, Sherlock’s got plans for you.”

She welcomes the news with more bright bambling but John’s mind is already elsewhere. Now that he knows for a fact, without a single doubt, really, that he is going to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, maybe they need to have a talk about Rosie’s upbringing. Sherlock is going to be her parent too. Even if they haven’t properly talked about it, he knows Sherlock is mad about Rosie, the experiment he’s writing up right now being proof enough. 

But still, it is yet another conversation they need to have. They’ve already taken the time to properly express their feelings the very first night they kissed, and if it has been both intense and a relief, John knew there were many more they had to say to each other. And Rosie was a huge part of it. 

“Do you think he’ll agree to Papa? Or Dad? Could just be Sherlock, too.” Rosie points to the door at the name, looking at him. “Yes, let’s go downstairs. I’m sure he’s already making your breakfast.”

What is waiting for them is actually a whole lot of different food and drinks all over the table, and a way too overjoyed Sherlock with a spoon in hand. John sighs, putting Rosie in her chair. “Good luck sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing her softly. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

John goes about his day while Sherlock slumbers on, peaceful on the couch. He doesn’t dare wake him - it has been about three days and one extremely tiresome case (that he solved right in the living room with the help of Zoom) since he last slept. Besides, it’s nice to have some quiet around the flat for a while. Not that John doesn’t love being around Sherlock during this time, God knows he does, but the man is, simply put, insufferable. He declares his boredom at least twice an hour and has taken to doing experiments on the contents of their fridge in a frankly transparent attempt at forcing them to go out and buy more supplies, which gives him a chance to get out of the flat. If, in the past, anybody would have told him that Sherlock Holmes was making blatant attempts to go to the shops and buy groceries, he’d have scoffed at the idea. He supposes they’re all making do during the pandemic, in any way possible. 

John is in his chair, finally tucking into the novel he’s been trying to read since this whole thing began. His concentration hasn’t been great. That, and Sherlock has been pretty much a full-time job these days. Again, not that he doesn’t love it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock move and groan lightly. Anybody else might mistake it for normal sleep, but John knows better. In the months that they’ve been - whatever it is they are - and, actually, all the months before that, John has come to know the intricacies of a sleeping Sherlock Holmes. And a sleeping Sherlock Holmes doesn’t move or make sounds. He sleeps like the dead, when he does it at all. John isn’t a consulting detective, but he can certainly deduce what’s going on, even before Sherlock starts thrashing a bit more violently and his groans become louder and more desperate. Before John has crossed the room, Sherlock has woken himself up with a yelled, “ _John_ ,” that truly, desperately breaks John’s heart.

He isn’t sure of the content of the dream, but he knows one thing: Sherlock needs him.

He’s on the couch, stroking Sherlock’s face and chest and arms and back, his _back_ , while Sherlock gasps for air, his panic clearly still clinging to him.

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay,” John says reassuringly, letting his fingers trace the scars on his back through his thin sleep shirt. “I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you and I’m not letting you go.”

Sherlock slumps forward into John’s arms, wrung out from the experience. His breathing is slowly evening out, matching John’s deep, suggestive breaths.

“Eurus, Moriarty, or Serbia?” John whispers in his ear, the old question he asks every time this happens. He has been having to ask a lot more these past few weeks, since the lockdown began. Sherlock has been having nightmares so frequently that it’s no wonder he barely sleeps these days. 

“A sordid combination of all three,” Sherlock murmurs, voice creaky with disuse and strain. “They - you were… you...”

He doesn’t ever complete the sentence, but John understands well enough, has had his own fair share of terror-filled nightmares involving Sherlock’s demise to know how difficult it is to just shake it off.

“I’m right here,” he whispers fiercely, stroking Sherlock’s back, up onto his neck and into his curls. “I’ll always be right here. Nobody has a say in that.”

Sherlock lifts his hands to grip John’s arms, steadying them in place. “I need…”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock is silent again. John knows it isn’t easy, this sort of thing. Not for either of them. They’re rubbish, still, at directly expressing their needs but, luckily, they now have the option of letting their bodies do the talking for them, which is what Sherlock does now. He leans back in John’s protective circle of arms and looks John in the eye. 

“Yeah, okay,” John says, “Shift up, let me lie down.”

Sherlock presses his body against the back of the couch, leaving ample room for John to lie down next to him. He pulls Sherlock close, leaving barely any space between the two of them, guiding his head down into John’s neck. 

They lie that way for ages, the minutes ticking slowly by as Sherlock’s breathing evens completely out.

After a long while, when John thinks he’s fallen asleep again, Sherlock leans back. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, so softly that, if John weren’t pressed right against him, he would never have picked up.

“Of course. Always,” John whispers, tilting Sherlock’s chin up to offer a light kiss on his mouth. 

And he means it.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not until late at night that it usually happens. Sherlock can see the signs, of course, with a mix of excitement and anticipation building up all day. He catches John looking at him for long minutes, watches him getting lost in his own head once or twice, but doesn’t say a word about any of it. He knows by the time Rosie will be asleep and they’ll retreat to the living room that John will be brave enough for the two of them and say whatever needs to be said. And so he waits. Patiently, or at least as patiently as he possibly can. He locks himself in his Mind Palace, the one or so method he has found to pass time a little faster while trapped in 221B. 

He knows John won’t mind, he’s amazingly surprising in this way, which Sherlock will probably never truly understand. But that’s alright, he’s stopped trying a long time ago now. He prefers spending his time trying to memorise all of John these days, especially since John took that step forward and kissed him in the middle of the bloody kitchen. With all the time on their hands, he’s been able to catalogue quite a lot already. And if tonight proves to be what he imagines, then he’ll have brand new information to digest and sort out for the next few days. 

“Sherlock?”

The flat is dark when Sherlock opens his eyes again, taking in John’s tensed posture and the silence surrounding them. He sits up slowly, working on his breathing so that John won’t notice just how fast everything is turning right now. He swallows around the knot in his throat and looks up at him. 

“I was wondering if we…” John starts, hands clutching by his side. “Maybe we could have…” Sherlock hates that it is still so hard, so fragile. “We could have a conversation.”

Sherlock nods, searching for the words he’s been playing on a loop all day inside his head. 

“Yes. That would be alright.”

John simply stands there for another second and is suddenly gone, retreating to his chair. Sherlock wonders if he should stay on the sofa or join him. The last, and only, time, they actually had a conversation, as John called it, was the very first day they kissed. It had been a lot, much more than Sherlock could have imagined, and many things had been left unsaid. So, yes, Sherlock had been expecting another. And probably more after this one, too. 

“Come here.”

Sherlock sighs in relief, letting John make the decision for him. The familiar comfort of his chair reassures him a little, and in a second, he decides that he will not let stress take over. No matter which subject John chooses to talk about, he will speak nothing but the truth and accept the consequences. 

Sherlock half expects another long moment of silence, but John meets his eyes and says, without taking a breath, “I am not sure I have truly forgiven you.”

Sherlock doesn’t need more to understand exactly what John is referring to, and he takes the hit without a sound. He manages to nod, throat dry. “I see.”

“I’ve accepted what happened, understood why you had to d- disappear, but there are moments when I can barely breathe remembering the weight of your absence.”

“I knew when I jumped that there was a high risk you would never speak to me again,” Sherlock replies, honest and raw. “I told myself that even if you’d never agree to see me again when I returned, then I deserved it.”

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes, “I don’t think that was ever an option. As angry as you made me, I wouldn’t have been able to simply ignore you. Christ, I already loved you so bloody much that it would have been impossible.”

“That’s the real reason, you know,” Sherlock says, avoiding John’s stare. “I jumped because I was in love with you and the only thing that mattered was saving you.” He inhales deeply, forcing himself to look back at John. “But if I had known the nature of your feelings, if I had even suspected that you might have felt the same, I honestly think I would have found a way to take you with me.”

John closes his eyes, something close to a sob escaping him. “It always comes back to this, all the time, not telling you sooner.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock says. “We already agreed not to dwell on the past. What’s done is done; none of us can change it. No matter how much we regret it now. I always suspected that you hadn’t really forgiven me, not with how I tricked you into it. Not my brightest moment.”

“Definitely not,” John replies, tone hard.

“You have to understand, I was on the edge of desperation back then. I know I just told you that I knew the risk, but being back and seeing you again after two years, I just couldn't accept that risk anymore. I had to make sure you weren’t going to walk away from me.”

“I will get there,” John says, leaning just a bit closer. “With time, I will get there. It doesn’t change what I feel about you, nor the promises we’ve made to each other. I am going to spend the rest of my days loving you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“But sometimes you’ll be angry again,” Sherlock finishes for him.

“But there will be days when I’ll see your chair and remember how it looked empty, or think back on your body on the ground, and it’ll make me so angry, yes.”

They fall silent. Sherlock wants to kiss him, take him in his arms and remind him that they have all the time in the world now. That he’ll never leave him this way ever again. And so he promises to himself that he’ll kiss all that anger away when it comes, each and every time, as long as it takes for John to truly forgive him.

“One day I will want to know what exactly you did during those two years,” John suddenly says.

“One day?”

“Yes,” he says. “I am not ready now, but when I ask, do you promise to tell me the truth?”

“Of course.”

“Then I promise to tell you about Mary too,” John replies, taking Sherlock by surprise. “I always wondered why you never asked, but I thank you for not doing so. I want to tell you about her, why I chose her, no matter what she might have thought, and how I felt about her.”

Sherlock nods slowly. He has dozens of questions about Mary, some he knows are probably much too private, but the need to know sometimes eats him raw. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” John says, smiling softly. “But I want to.” He leans closer, Sherlock moving to meet him in the middle. “We are going to get through all of it, together. You know that, right?” 

Sherlock nods, accepting John’s kiss with relief. Sherlock smiles and kisses him some more because, in the end, it is just that easy with John Watson. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

He has caught Sherlock in all manner of position during the lockdown.

Day two, John walked into the kitchen to see him stuffing half a jar of olives in his mouth, claiming he wanted to “see how many can fit, John, it’s a worthwhile experiment like any other. Stop looking at me like that.”

Day five, he heard a suspicious sound from Sherlock’s bedroom and, upon entering, found the man in question contorting himself into a god awful shape that looked entirely - even medically - unsound. Upon questioning, Sherlock calmly remarked that he was “trying yogilates, of course. Now don’t just stand there, John - help me up!”

Day seven, there was the incident with the portable flamethrower that John didn’t know they had and resolutely will not talk about again because he happened to like their kitchen chairs just the way they were, thank you very much. Besides, he made sure no flamethrowing incidents would be happening in the near future when he got rid of the blasted thing (Sherlock had a sulk for a few days, but eventually, John talked him ‘round with soothing kisses and, mainly, a huge lecture on health and safety within their flat that John didn’t let him use his sexual prowess to get out of). 

Day ten, Sherlock decided to fill their bath with soil samples and when John had pointed out that they couldn’t bath, Sherlock had shrugged and muttered, “Inconsequential,” until John reminded him of all the extracurricular activities and hair-washing he did on Sherlock in their bath. That one was an easy save.

With all this in mind, then, it’s no surprise that when, on day eleven, John wakes up and comes into the sitting room and Sherlock is sitting in his chair, perfectly calm and dressed in his usual tight-fitting suit, John tenses up as though they’re in imminent danger. Because, where Sherlock is concerned, they may well be. 

“Sherlock,” John says, in lieu of their customary good morning peck. He pauses next to his chair, not ready to sit down until he knows what’s up. 

“Yes, John,” he replies, smooth, casual. 

_ Oh he’s  _ definitely _ up to something,  _ John thinks, not without affection.

“What, ah, what’re you up to?” John goes for casual, too, but overshoots. 

“Thinking.”

“Mmm?”

“We’ve been… together for a couple of weeks now.” The bastard, he’s so calm. It makes John’s heartbeat hitch a bit.

“Yes?”

“Well, I think it’s time we take things… further.”

John is surprised. “Further?”

“You know...” Sherlock waves a hand as though in impatience, but John sees it for what it really is: he’s embarrassed. Too embarrassed to say what he means. John cottons on.

“I see.”

“So you agree?”

“No.”

“No?” It’s Sherlock’s turn to be surprised now. “I thought-”

“Sherlock,” John placates. “It’s not that I don’t want to. God knows I do.  _ You  _ know I do. We just - we haven’t properly discussed it.”

“What is there to discuss?”

“I don’t know. Preparations. How we feel about it. If we’ve ever done it before. All of that.”

“When we first got together, you said I was overthinking every time we had sex, and that there isn’t anything to prepare beforehand, to just ‘be in the moment, Sherlock’, as you so eloquently put it. You know how I feel about it. I’m telling you now. And, no, I’ve not ever done it before. Obviously.”

“Right.” John thinks for a while. There’s something else. “Sherlock, you know this isn’t something we should do just because you’re bored and can’t go out?”

Sherlock looks affronted at that. 

“I don’t mean - I just mean to say-”

“Yes, thank you, I know what you mean to say. That I couldn’t possibly want to have penetrative sex with my partner unless I was bored or it was an experiment or something like that.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Nevermind,” Sherlock says, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket while walking away. 

“No,” John stops him, hand lightly circling Sherlock’s wrist so he’s able to leave if he wants to, but the message is clear enough:  _ Don’t go. _

Sherlock hesitates at that. Stands still. Waits for John to carry on speaking.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, turning to face him and cup his jaw lightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you. Like,  _ really  _ know you. I just- you just kind of sprung this one me, that’s all. I’m barely even awake.”

“So it’s something you want?” Sherlock asks, and the hope in his eyes makes John’s heart do something odd and probably unscientific. 

“‘Course, yeah.” John smoothes the wrinkle from between Sherlock’s eyes with his fingers, stands on tiptoe to place a chaste kiss there.

“Okay,” he replies, mouth resisting being twisted into a sly grin. “Good.”

He leans down to kiss John, letting his lips linger there. “Very good.”

They don’t talk again about it for the remainder of the day, each of them quite absorbed in their own quarantine activities. That night, in bed, though, Sherlock brings it up again.

Before John turns off the lamp on his side of the bed, Sherlock asks, softly, “Have you?”

And this is what having a conversation with Sherlock is often like: threads running in all directions, spanning out infinitely, while you struggle to grasp one. In this case, John hasn’t caught the right thread.

“Have I what?”

“Done it before?”

“Ah.” John holds Sherlock’s gaze. “You’re really determined to talk about this, yeah?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Not... Not that particular act, no. Came close, but, ah, never took the step, I guess.”

“Why not?”

“Truthfully?”

That earns him another eyeroll.

“I never - It seemed like a big step. I never…”

“I see.”

“You do?”

“You never wanted to solidify your sexuality in that way,” Sherlock says, but it isn’t unkind. Not like a deduction at a crime scene. More like a plainly stated fact, conveyed with love.

“Yeah, that and… I never really found the right person.”

“Major Sholto?” The little crease between Sherlock’s eyes makes an appearance.

“Never happened.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. I… I s’pose I wanted it to, yeah, but it never went further than… it was just a lot of thinly veiled flirtation, mostly.”

“Pity,” Sherlock teases.

“Shutup.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you.”

“That’s what I’m trying to achieve here. Do keep up, John, dear.”

John kisses the smug grin off Sherlock’s mouth, lingers a bit, allowing their breaths to mingle.

“Hmm, might have to make good on that,” John murmurs, kissing his way down Sherlock’s jaw, onto his neck. He only stops to pull back and tug Sherlock’s sleep shirt over his head, then continues his way down, pausing at a nipple and rolling it between his teeth. Sherlock almost shoots off the bed, as John knew he would. He puts a calming hand on Sherlock’s stomach and moves to the other nipple, circling it with his tongue.

“J-John,” Sherlock says. It seems to be his favourite word during sex.

John moves lower, toying with the waistband on Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. Sherlock huffs out and pulls them off himself, along with his pants.

“Impatient,” John teasingly scolds before gripping Sherlock’s half-hard cock with his hand and pumping. When he has a steady rhythm, he adds his mouth to the equation, creating a vice between the hot heat there and his fist, moving in counterpoint.

“Joooohn,” Sherlock moans.

John lifts off, though continues to stroke lazily. He looks up at Sherlock’s reddened face. He looks half gone already. He looks absolutely gorgeous. John tells him so, earning another moan.

“What would you like?” John asks him.

“You know,” Sherlock groans out, letting his legs fall open on the bed.

“Fuck, alright. Yeah, alright,” John counters helpfully, his own cock straining in his pants already.

“Take your clothes off.”

John is more than happy to comply, freeing his cock from the constraints of the clothing.

Sherlock looks down his body to where John has undressed, between his legs. He looks blissfully happy.

“Come here,” he says, pulling John up to meet his mouth in a bruising kiss.

He reaches down and takes hold of John’s cock, using his clever hands to make him curse into Sherlock’s mouth. 

John presses a finger against Sherlock’s tight hole and Sherlock, the clever bastard, grinds down. He reaches into the bedside drawer and holds the lube up. John lifts his hand, allowing Sherlock to pour the liquid onto his fingers.

John reaches down and presses his finger against the puckered skin in earnest, pushing his index finger slowly, teasingly in. Before long, Sherlock is grinding down onto it and John has stretched him enough to add another finger. 

“Fuck, you’re tight. So tight, Sherlock,” John murmurs, kissing him while he crooks his fingers inside the tight heat, earning a gasp from Sherlock. 

“More. Moremoremore,” Sherlock groans into John’s mouth.

“Mmm. Patience.”

“Joooohn.” Sherlock uses the opportunity to grind down, fucking himself on John’s fingers. 

Not one to be outdone, John pulls out to add a third finger. Sherlock gasps, prompting John to begin to pull out. Sherlock grabs his wrist where it is. 

“Wait. Just. Let me get used to it.”

John waits until Sherlock starts to move a little bit, allowing John to stretch him further. John takes the opportunity to move in and out, slowly, minutely. Sherlock groans underneath him, emanating his pleasure into the bedroom, making John’s cock twitch and leak in sympathy. 

“John,” Sherlock growls, “Need you. Inside me. Now.”

When Sherlock holds out the lube again, John knows what he wants. He coats his cock slick with it, hissing at the friction his hands create on his achingly-hard prick. He then lines up with Sherlock’s entrance and…

He doesn’t think he can do it. Although Sherlock is loose and panting below him, John doesn’t see how his cock is going to fit in  _ there _ .

“Joooohn,” Sherlock is moaning, pushing his entrance down onto the tip.

“Be patient, love. This isn’t - I don’t see how -”

“Hurry. Up,” Sherlock commands, popping the last  _ p _ in superiority.

Sherlock knows how to make John do whatever he wants him to do and, for once, John isn’t complaining. He pushes into Sherlock’s entrance slightly, allowing Sherlock to stretch around him. He’s not even nearly in before Sherlock’s eyes slam open and he draws in a sharp breath in obvious discomfort.

“Waitwaitwaitstopstopstop!”

“I told you, you stupid wanker.”

Sherlock ignores him in favour of taking deep breaths, seeming to brace himself.

“Let’s give it a break,” John says softly, reaching forward to stroke the hair back from Sherlock’s crumpled forehead. 

“No. No!” Sherlock says, smoothing his face into normalcy, but John can tell it’s a put-on.

“What’s the rush, love?”

“I just- I want this. I want to do this. I don’t want you to-” Sherlock stops himself suddenly, snapping his mouth shut. He squeezes his eyes closed, clearly trying to hide himself but with nowhere to go.

John moves out from between Sherlock’s legs and lies down next to him, leaning his head on his hand.

He strokes through Sherlock’s curls, drawing him out. They don’t need words, just gestures.

“This isn’t easy,” Sherlock grumbles, so soft that John has to lean in.

John carries on stroking his hair, face, jawline.

“I- I don’t want you to think- I’d hate it if you weren’t… satisfied. With me.” Sherlock opens his eyes carefully, turning his face to look in John’s eyes, shy, small, very unlike him.

But John knows this Sherlock, knows by now what to do. “Why wouldn’t I be satisfied with you?” he asks simply.

“You like sex.”

“Yes. And?”

“I want to give it to you. Not just that, obviously. I want to have it with you. I- It’s something I’ve fantasised about for a very, very long time.”

“Sherlock, we have sex all the time.”

“Not like  _ that _ .” 

“What difference does it make? I’m  _ satisfied _ . Believe me.  _ Trust  _ me.” John grabs his jaw, turns his face fully towards him and plants a soft kiss just to the right of his downturned mouth. “I want us to do this, too, but I’m in no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

At his words, Sherlock’s face softens and his eyes sparkle a little, with unshed tears or mirth, John couldn’t tell. “You really mean that,” he says, and it isn’t a question. He sounds as though he’s in awe.

“‘Course I mean it. Prat. C’mere.” He gathers Sherlock in his arms and squeezes him, hoping to somehow transfuse the veracity and intensity of his words in his gesture. 

Sherlock’s arms circle him, their naked bodies coming together once more. Neither of them have lost all of their interest yet, as is evidenced by their half-hard cocks. At the friction, Sherlock pulls back and gives John a long, slow, heated kiss. He starts to rub his cock against John’s.

“Can we…” he murmurs in their joint breaths. “Could we…”

“Anything,” John whispers back. “Anything, love. Tell me.”

“Can we try again. I just… I really do want this.”

John pulls back, looks Sherlock in the eye. He’s open, soft,  _ wanting _ , so very, very wanting it makes John’s stomach flutter.

“Alright.” He settles back between Sherlock’s legs and holds out his hands for the lube, which Sherlock passes to him. He coats his fingers and cock in it, inserts two fingers back into Sherlock’s hole experimentally and, God, he’s so open, so ready, John can’t help but growl and thrust in, craning his fingers up to touch the small fleshy nub there. Sherlock all but flies off the bed, shouting and moaning incoherently. All John can really make out is, “Johnjohnjohnmoremorepleasemorejohn,” so he adds a third finger, letting Sherlock stretch out fully, scissoring on every second plunge. Sherlock is panting wildly, grinding his body down to meet every thrust. 

“John, now, pleasejohnnownownownow.” Sherlock is so far gone, it’s all John can do to pull out and line his cock up with Sherlock’s dripping, open entrance.

“Ready?” he asks, searching for the eye contact he needs to be sure.

Sherlock locks eyes with him and bears down, the clever, clever bastard. He takes in almost half of John’s length before he stops, groaning with wild abandon. 

“Alright?” John asks, and Sherlock’s responding moans are answer enough.

He takes a deep breath and starts to push the rest of his length in, bit by bit, taking care to let Sherlock get used to any discomfort. He displays no signs of wanting to stop. In no time, John is fully seated. He looks down at his cock buried deep in Sherlock’s body with something akin to wonder. 

“Sherlock,” he says softly, unable to contain his awe. 

“I know, John,” he replies before rocking his body, slowly at first, but soon in earnest. 

John starts thrusting in and out, growing less cautious with each groan that Sherlock uses to assure him he’s alright -  _ more  _ than, in fact.

Sherlock brings his legs up to circle John’s waist, deepening the angle in the most maddeningly perfect way and John shifts to his elbows so he can bring up one hand and give Sherlock’s leaking cock some attention, too. It only takes a few well-timed strokes coupled with his cock aiming in the right direction for Sherlock to come with a shout, spilling across his chest. The sight of him, thoroughly debauched, makes John follow soon after, driving his pleasure home and slumping on top of Sherlock when he’s done, having no presence of mind to give a toss about the mess between them. 

After a little while, Sherlock reaches down lazily between them, using a finger to scoop up some of John’s come that is leaking out of him. He inspects it, sniffs it, and is apparently satisfied enough to wipe the residue on the sheet.

“Nutter,” John remarks before kissing him senseless.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, turning his body so that he shoves John off of him and they’re lying side by side, circled in each other’s arms. 

They stay that way, sticky and warm and utterly sated until morning, their breaths evening out as John swears he hears Sherlock whisper, “I love you,” into his neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](%E2%80%9C)

Because he’s Sherlock and John is John, it’s easy to see it coming. It has been building for a while now, this restless energy that John sometimes gets when things spin too wildly out of his control. He sees it coming long before John does. It’s in the little things: a small curl of a left hand, a hug cut short, tea made with too little milk, a shower that lasts a little over the customary six and a half minute mark, grinding of teeth as eyes stare into nothing.

And because he’s Sherlock and John is John, he also knows what to do about it. Knows when to push forward and when to pull away; the delicate dance of their emotions playing out with their bodies and their nonverbal quirks. He knows that when John slumps down on the couch a little too hard, he should place a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. He also knows that when John’s frame becomes so tense that he’s practically vibrating with negative energy, he should withdraw that hand and offer his steadfast companionship, instead.

He thinks about what he can do to get John out of his funk. It’s almost like an experiment, but one he is emotionally very invested in. He hates to see John like this, silent and on edge and just  _ wrong _ , hatefully wrong without his soft jumpers and softer cuddles. 

Sherlock doesn’t take the pulling away personally. He understands that John can’t help it right now - that the world feels to him to have spun so wildly out of his grasp that he can’t get back on the right track again. Sherlock is also patient and he loves John. He would wait forever for this to pass, if need be.

He also knows that there are new opportunities to help John every day, and that he can use his deductive powers for this one good.

Today, when John wakes up and throws on his sweatpants for the sixth day in a row, Sherlock has an idea of how to intervene.

“John,” he starts, sitting opposite John at the kitchen table with his cup of coffee.

“Yes,” John replies, more into his cup than at Sherlock. But Sherlock has patience and love on his side.

“Let’s make the bed.”

“What?”

“Let’s make the bed. We haven’t made the bed in ages. I think we should make the bed.”

John sighs, frustration already built up in his features. “What good will it do,” he asks, a slight sarcastic edge to his tone, “to make the bed in a time like this?”

He decides to keep it simple, light, feigning nonchalance. “Because we haven’t made it.” 

“Your point?”

“We always used to make the bed.”

“No,  _ I  _ always used to make the bed. If you want to make the sodding bed so badly, why don’t  _ you  _ make it for once?” John snaps.

Patience. Patience and love. He forges ahead, softening his voice the way he knows John responds to. “I thought we could do it together. You could show me how to tuck the corners the way I like.”

John looks up, frowning in something like suspicion. Sherlock keeps his face perfectly blank, as though making the bed wouldn’t matter to him in the least. Truth be told, it  _ doesn’t  _ matter to him in the least - he just knows it would do John good to get back to a semblance of a routine. Which, for John, used to include making the bed as soon as he woke up, neat, clean, military lines. He knows the army drilled that discipline into him, and he thinks it would do him some good while the world around them keeps spinning but not moving - at least not in any positive way that he can determine. 

“I’ll do it, I just need you to tell me how,” Sherlock tries one last time.

John’s shoulders sag as though in defeat. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They move to the bedroom without speaking, Sherlock playing out likely scenarios in his mind, coupled with what role he should play. He decides to opt for authenticity - John always knows when he’s playing him, especially when he’s in this mode.

Sherlock strips everything off the bed when they’re in the room, taking clean sheets from his cupboard. 

“Where do I start?”

John stands in the doorway, hovering there as though deciding whether to engage with Sherlock in this or to turn around and shut him out some more. Sherlock stands with the clean sheets in his hand, unmoving. A faithful presence. After thirty seconds or so, John sighs and walks into the room, stepping over the dirty sheets and standing next to Sherlock.

“Okay, so you’re going to need another one of those sheets for the bottom.”

“Can’t I just use a fitted sheet?”

“It isn’t as tight.”

Sherlock smirks at John, who rolls his eyes in response and gestures towards the bed.

He pulls another sheet out of the cupboard and lays it over the bare mattress.

“Make sure it’s even,” John says, and Sherlock shivers a little bit at the edge to it, the way it comes out more like an order. Captain Watson returns. “Now, you’re going to tuck the sheet between the mattress and the base at the foot of the bed. Good. The same at the head.”

Sherlock smirks again, earning him another eyeroll.

“Now, go back to the foot and pick up one corner. Lift it up here,” John indicates a few centimetres up from where the sheet is tucked into the foot, “And put your index finger on top of the corner there, while you lift the sheet with your other hand. Tuck the lower part under the mattress. There. Hold the corner with your finger and fold the top sheet at a 45 degree angle. Pull tighter than that. Tighter.” John’s commanding voice is doing something to Sherlock that he isn’t finding altogether unenjoyable. “Now tuck the rest of the sheet under the mattress and do the same to all four corners.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, and makes pretty quick work of it. He’s a scientist. This is a bedsheet. He’s pretty sure this falls safely within things he should be able to master. 

When he’s done, John holds up the other clean sheet and says, “Now this one.”

Sherlock groans. Why did he want to do this again? Ah, he wanted to make John feel better. Does John feel better? He sneaks a glance into John’s face. He looks concentrated in the task at hand, out of his thoughts for the time being. It’s worth it, then. Sherlock repeats the same tiring process with the top sheet. He’s beyond grateful when it comes to the duvet that he doesn’t have to tuck another blanket in.

When he’s done, he looks at his handiwork, spins around, and bounces onto the bed, head falling just below the pillows.

“Sherlock! You just made that!” John says, exasperated, yet fond.

“Mmm. Join me.” He holds out a hand. A plea bargain. John takes it, joining him on the bed, a little more carefully than Sherlock, though. 

“You okay?” Sherlock asks softly when they’re nestled beside each other.

John takes a huff of a breath and blinks at the ceiling. Hard. “I will be.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that people are wont to speak about their emotions when they’re feeling them. If you need something like that, I hope you know I’m… that is, I’m amenable. If you’d like.”

John turns to face Sherlock, leaning his elbow on the bed and his head on his hand. He strokes Sherlock’s cheekbone, something he seems to enjoy doing. “Thank you. I know,” he replies.

“Good.”

He leans in and kisses Sherlock on the cheekbone he was stroking. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Sherlock counters, frowning a bit.

“We’re both lucky, then.”

Sherlock thinks about that. All the difficult things that have passed between them, leading them to this moment, shared breath and soft compliments.

“Mmm. I’m beginning to think we are.”

John flops back down next to Sherlock and they lay that way for a bit, letting the sun rise a little higher before they start their day for the second time. John is still quiet, but it’s a settled kind of quiet now, the lines in his body slack and even. Sherlock feels the tiniest tinge of pride at having helped make that happen


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wants to make the bed.

“What good will it do,” John asks, feeling the first tremor of irritation coming up, “to make the bed in a time like this?”

“Because we haven’t made it,” Sherlock replies calmly. 

John breathes in, hand clenching by his side. “Your point?”

“We always used to make the bed.”

“No, _I_ always used to make the bed. If you want to make the sodding bed so badly, why don’t _you_ make it for once?” John snaps before he can do anything about it. 

He immediately seeks Sherlock’s eyes, not exactly sure what has gotten into him. For God’s sake, it feels as if he’s been snapping at him for a bloody week now, and surely Sherlock isn’t gonna take it much longer. It’s already quite a miracle he hasn’t snapped back already. But no, Sherlock stands there, watching him with infinite patience in his eyes, and John feels like a complete idiot. 

“I thought we could do it together,” Sherlock simply says. “You could show me how to tuck the corners the way I like.”

Now John is definitely suspicious. Sherlock has never, and he means _never,_ taken any interest in making the bed since they’ve started being together, and even less when he used to sleep alone in his bed. John is fairly certain Mrs Hudson did it for him every morning, and John had had to explain why she couldn’t continue making _their_ bed now. 

“I’ll do it, I just need you to tell me how,” Sherlock adds after a minute or two of silence. 

John sighs. “Alright. Let’s go.”

John follows him all the way to the bedroom, remaining by the doorway as Sherlock removes their sheets before getting some new ones. He can’t help but feel guilty all of a sudden, watching Sherlock act so... well, sweet really. John is very much aware he’s been a mess lately, not finding the will to properly dress or even eat, with nothing to do but remain inside the flat all day, all week. He should be out there, fighting this virus alongside his colleagues but they had insisted that there were already enough doctors and so decided on some sort of weekly shift. 

So here he is, trapped, useless. 

“Where do I start?”

But there’s Sherlock, watching him, loving him. John wants to close the space between them and ravish him. Christ, he can’t even remember the last time they had sex. He can’t go on like this. And if making the bed is the first step Sherlock chooses, that’s fine. They’re going to make this bed and then John will find his way back home.

***

Another four days pass before John finally finds his way. Despite the late hour, he cannot sleep which explain why he’s currently staring at a sleeping Sherlock, wondering if he should even go to bed. He knows Sherlock hasn’t been sleeping well lately, probably because of him, but if he can give him another hour or two, that’s all that matters. He decides against it and heads for the living room, going for his chair automatically. For what seems like weeks now, he has sat there for hours, trying to figure out where exactly his place in this situation is. 

But tonight marks the end of it all. Tonight he sits there lost and searching for the last time. In truth, he has found what he needs for a couple of days now. It came to him one morning, waking up to Sherlock surrounding him completely. He had felt so loved, so cared for in that moment that it had all made sense suddenly. This mess inside him, threatening to eat him whole, simply demands to be soothed, reassured, filled. And John knows exactly how. Oh, he has thought about it before. Fantasised about it years ago, alone in his small room, wondering whether Major Sholto would ever do something, _anything_. He has thought about it ever since meeting Sherlock, wondering what it would be like, imagining the sounds and caresses and sensations way too many times. He has thought about it in the past weeks, making Sherlock his so many times, and wondering just how it would feel to be the one being claimed. 

And so, earlier that day, watching Sherlock play with Rosie while glancing lovingly at him, John had decided that he was more than ready to properly belong to this man. There is no certainty that it is going to work, that he won’t feel this useless afterwards, but for now all John needs is to be cared for and loved, and nothing else really matters. He craves reassurance, to be brought back to life with words and touches and sweet nonsense. 

He almost doesn’t notice Sherlock walking in, wearing nothing but his pants, and John _wants_.

“Hey,” Sherlock says softly, standing close. 

“Hi.” 

He tries to smile, knowing he isn’t fooling anyone. 

Sherlock kneels down in front of him, resting his chin in John’s lap. “What can I do?”

John reaches for his curls, stroking slowly. God, how he loves him. “I just… I need…” He starts, searching for words. He knows he can ask anything, that Sherlock would be there and understand, but still, it all suddenly feels so heavy.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says soft and quiet.

John inhales deeply, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes and saying, “Take me to bed.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

If Sherlock had been counting, he would know that they haven’t had sex for six and a half days. But he hasn’t been counting. Not at all. He hasn’t been savouring their last time as though it’s oxygen, taking it out of his Mind Palace and breathing it in when he feels a little bit lonely and a little bit worried. He certainly isn’t dreaming about their next time, when John can take him apart bit by bit, the intimacy he has come to value above all else taking centre stage. 

No, he isn’t thinking about that. Because that would be counterproductive. Nowadays, his focus is on how to make John feel better. There had been the day with the bed-making, which helped, albeit for a short while. He has tried to get them into something resolving a routine - or whatever routine means for them. He makes sure they get up, make the bed, eat breakfast and take their vitamins. He’s even taking over the whole breakfast-making ordeal for this part, since it was clear that John thought that coffee was a substitute for a meal. Not that Sherlock can blame him, but he knows John needs more than that to function. So he puts toast or oats or eggs or cereal in front of John every morning and makes sure to eat the same meal with him, across from him, encouraging him along wordlessly with every bite he takes. 

Then, John either goes in to the clinic or Sherlock asks him to help solve some of the cold cases Lestrade dropped off for them. They’re all either too tedious to bother with or too enticing to solve from their living room, but Sherlock makes do. For the greater good. And, mostly, for John. He had promised John early on that he wouldn’t sneak out, even though he could and, these days, he keeps his promises to John. After working on cases, he makes them lunch, which normally consists of sandwiches or leftovers, because he cares about John very deeply, but he’s still not  _ actually  _ a cook.

They spend the rest of the afternoon doing things around the flat, cleaning or reading or watching telly. John hasn’t been reading much, but Sherlock keeps sending interesting journal articles to his email to pique his interest. Sherlock deduces that he reads about half of them, which is pretty good, when Sherlock weighs the alternatives. In the evening, John usually cooks something (thank God) and, after dinner, Sherlock puts  _ Survivor  _ on for them to watch. They’ve binged three seasons so far and, while it’s not exactly Sherlock’s ideal way to spend his downtime, he’s grateful that it seems to engage John, so he sits next to him, sometimes resting his head against John’s shoulder, or otherwise just pressing up against him to show him that he’s  _ there _ with him. John seems to like that, and he’ll sometimes even take Sherlock's hand or press the side of his thigh against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock likes that.

So, no, he hasn’t really had much time to think about sex. Not even when he baths, alone with his imagination, or when he falls asleep, somehow cold on his side of the bed. He resolutely does not think about it. Not even that night, when he goes to bed alone, John insisting on staying up to sit in his chair, claiming he needs some time to think. What he could be thinking about, Sherlock isn’t sure, but he gives him space and retires to bed. Alone.

He falls in and out of sleep for hours, half-dreams of the taste and smell of Serbian sand and Brazilian heat. At about 2:30am, he decides to go check on John. He finds him in the same position almost, hands on his lap, focus glazed over.

“Hey,” Sherlock says softly, standing next to him, giving him time to look up.

“Hi.” John’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Sherlock kneels down in front of John, bringing his chin to rest on John’s knees while looking up into his eyes. “What can I do?” he asks.

John reaches down to card a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I just… I need…”

He keeps quiet for long moments, looking at Sherlock as though appraising. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock eventually says on a puff of breath.

“Take me to bed.”

“Gladly.”

He stands up and reaches out his hand for John to take. They walk to the bedroom hand in hand and Sherlock takes John’s jumper and jeans off, leaving him in his pants and vest. He pulls their duvet open, allowing John to climb inside, and then goes to join him on the other side of the bed.

John pulls him close, kissing him hard on the mouth. Sherlock pulls back with a questioning sound, surprised at the sudden contact after days of nothing. 

“Please,” John says, and he sounds pained, aching, desperate.

“Anything,” Sherlock replies, and it’s true. He would give this man anything.

“I need you to… I- I need you inside me. I know we’ve never - we’ve never done that or discussed it before, but - I- I need you to…”

Sherlock understands immediately. What John craves right now is to be cared for, soothed, filled, claimed. Sherlock knows this, because he often feels it, too. And every time he does, John is right there, giving him exactly what he asks for. 

He closes the gap between them once again, pulling John into a soft kiss, letting his hands wander all over his chest and arms, holding, soothing, claiming. John sighs, seeming to let go of something he has been holding onto not only today, but all the days that have preceded this one, dark and grey in their flat. He grips his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulls Sherlock on top of him, letting his legs fall open so that Sherlock slots directly between them. Sherlock groans as their cocks make contact, the time since the last time they’ve done this and now leaving him a little dizzy with want. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers in his ear as they grind continuously into the other. “Fuck me, love.” 

Sherlock gasps at the words, filthy yet sweet, and reaches into the bedside drawer for the lube. He coats his fingers in it, using more than is strictly necessary to make it easier for John. He reaches down between John’s legs and rubs around his hole as he takes a nipple into his mouth. John swears, lifting his body, seeking friction for his cock. Sherlock’s own prick gives a twinge at the sight. He pushes the first finger in, slowly, slowly, as slow as he needs to and, before long, John is grinding himself down on it, so he adds a second. John’s body takes it beautifully, and the sight of John fucking himself on Sherlock’s fingers in the moonlit bedroom takes Sherlock’s breath away. He adds another finger after a while, allowing John to stretch and accept it before he thrusts in earnest, loosening John up so that he’s good and ready to take all of Sherlock in.

John has been reduced to groans and a fair lot of curse words, which is his usual vocabulary in the bedroom. Sherlock kneels between John’s legs, slicks his cock with another excessive amount of lube and lines his head up with John’s open, waiting entrance.

He looks at John, meeting his eyes. “Ready?” he asks.

John nods wordlessly, tapping Sherlock’s arse with his heel. Sherlock moves in, shaking as each centimetre of his cock is buried in John. John is writhing around on the bed, groaning Sherlock’s name between the  _ Yes, oh fuck, yes, fuck, fuck, fuck _ s. It only takes a few minutes for Sherlock to bottom out. He can’t stop looking between his cock buried inside of John and John’s face, relaxed, open and as jaw-droppingly handsome as the day Sherlock met him in that lab.

He starts moving experimentally, rocking in and out in increments at first but, with John’s nonverbal encouragement, he starts thrusting in earnest while still taking his time, savouring every sensation. John pulls Sherlock’s face down to meet his, kissing him sloppily and whispering, “I love you,” into his mouth before flipping them over and sitting on top of Sherlock.

Sherlock can’t tell which demands his attention more - the maneuver that takes his cock that much deeper into John, or the words they’ve not really uttered to each other before. Not as straightforward as that.

While Sherlock’s brain comes back online, John rides him, rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion. John lifts his palms up and out, and Sherlock understands immediately. He lifts his own up to meet John’s, and John clasps their hands together, bracing himself on Sherlock’s. He starts to move quicker then, making Sherlock’s stomach feel like it’s coiling tighter and tighter, his pleasure crashing down on him almost without warning. The sheer intimacy of what they’re doing and the weight of John’s words still lingering in the air eventually take over his every faculty, and he comes with a loud shout, spilling inside of John, filling him up, a miracle in and of itself. John lets go of Sherlock’s right hand to fist himself, coming soon after with a cry, painting Sherlock’s chest and abdomen with his release.

After a few moments, John slumps forward, his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. His body is shaking, and Sherlock knows he’s crying.

“Not good?” Sherlock is concerned.

John leans back, allowing his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “No. Very good. I… needed… more than you know. Thank you…”

Sherlock gathers John up in his arms again, stroking his back while he sobs quietly. They fall asleep that way, limbs intermingled and John’s sobs dying down to become light snores. They both sleep deeper than they have in days. 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock has been planning their evening for the past two days, ever since the clinic had called and asked for John to come in today really. Getting Mrs Hudson to babysit Rosie had been easy, more than easy in fact, and she had come to get her a few hours ago, rambling about all they were going to do between girls. 

Then came the cleaning, which Sherlock knew John would appreciate considering the numerous sighs he’s been letting out the past few days at the sight of the flat. In complete honesty, it was the part Sherlock had liked less in this whole process, but after a couple hours the flat looked much better, and Sherlock was sure that John’s mood would improve the second he set foot inside. 

The third step had been cooking something that could be eaten cold or easily heated up. He had browsed the internet for quite a while the day before, looking for the right recipe and finally settling on a not too complicated salad. After following every step perfectly, Sherlock was quite pleased with the result. He had already prepared their two plates before putting them in the fridge for later. 

Which brought him to the last step, the one he’s currently working on patiently. John called to say he was leaving the clinic fifteen minute ago, which means Sherlock only has a few minutes to make sure everything is perfect. He lights one more candle, having decided on not too many anyway, and places it by the sink. He turns off the light, making sure they’ll be able to see each other in the dim light and smiles happily at the result. He mentally checks all the items on his list and finally sighs with relief. Despite his meticulous planning, anything could have gone wrong, but knowing now that John is going to come home to _this_ is the best feeling, truly.

Just as he closes the door, he hears the one downstairs opening. Hurrying to the front door, Sherlock waits until he’s certain John is on the other side before opening it. 

“Oh,” John says, surprised to see him there. 

“Welcome home, John.”

John smiles,“Thank you, love,” before heading for the kitchen to wash his hands and face.

“How was your day?” Sherlock asks, despite already knowing. 

“Alright, I guess,” John sighs, not going into further details. 

It is always the same these past few weeks. People worrying over every little symptom, some leaving relieved when proven wrong, others going home with bad news to share. Sherlock knows perfectly well just how all of this is affecting John everytime he has a shift, and so he doesn’t ask for more, simply watches as John notices the changes inside the flat.

“You cleaned?”

Sherlock smiles proudly, “I did.”

John’s face lights up with this look of adoration that Sherlock loves so much.

“You didn’t have to, you know, but it’s nice that you did.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies. They’ve talked about how this new relationship didn’t mean they had to change their dynamic, but Sherlock knows it demands effort on both parts. “I wanted to.”

John kisses him, lingering there a bit longer, “Thank you.”

“Actually,” Sherlock says, taking his hand, “I have something planned for us tonight.”

“Hmm, I was thinking the flat was too quiet too,” John laughs. “Mrs Hudson?”

“She was thrilled,” Sherlock replies. “She’ll keep her all night.”

John nods, looking around, probably looking for the surprise. “This way,” Sherlock says.

He stops in front of the bathroom door, hands coming up to remove John’s clothes efficiently. 

“Let me,” John says when Sherlock starts to remove his own.

Despite their current state of nakedness, John seems to catch on to the lack of sexual intentions and doesn’t make a move, waiting patiently. Suddenly nervous, Sherlock inhales deeply before opening the door, letting John get in first.

“Oh, love,” John breathes.

With the low light and the steam from the hot water running, the atmosphere is exactly what Sherlock had been aiming for. He smiles, pleased with himself when John turns back around to kiss him some more.

“I needed this, thank you.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, simply guiding him to the bath and stepping in first. He welcomes John’s body against his own, the two of them moving around until the perfect position is found. John sighs again, letting his head fall back against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock lets his hands roam over John’s torso and shoulders, a soft massage that makes John moan quietly. 

“Tell me about your day,” John asks after a few moments.

“We had a good day. Rosie made some improvements in her speech. I’m sure she’ll be happy to show you tomorrow.”

“That’s nice.”

“I worked on the case Lestrade gave us the other day. I am getting close to getting the exact location they’re looking for, but I need Molly’s help and she wasn’t working today. She promised to call tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to explain everything in detail,” John says, turning his head to look at him. “But not right now.”

“Not right now,” Sherlock agrees before kissing him. “After that I brought Rosie down to Mrs Hudson and then worked on the second part of this pleasant evening.”

“Oh, so this is not the whole surprise,” John laughs. “Lucky me.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock smiles.

“Oh trust me,” John says, “I do.”

Sherlock smiles, kissing him one more. _Surprises more often_ , he mentally writes down on a post it in John’s room. _Much more often._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

Sherlock is bereft. He’s used to it by now; he always feels this way once John has left for work. He’s glad it gives John something to do, but it leaves Sherlock feeling vulnerable and exposed and, to be frank, lonely. Loneliness isn’t something he used to grapple with, pre-John. It was his usual state of being. He had no reference counterpoint, so it never bothered him before. Alone protected him. It was all he had. And then he jumped off a roof and, in the process, proved to himself just how untrue that all was.

After living with John for only a short period of time, he found himself craving the company of somebody else. Not somebody - John. His two years away left him feeling rubbed raw and wrong and only with the knowledge that he would come back to John did he manage it at all. When he came back, however, the loneliness seemed only to amplify in the wake of John’s relationship and marriage and his not living at Baker Street anymore. Wedding vows and a baby and a commitment he couldn’t be part of, no matter how hard he tried, no matter that he also included his vow, it wasn’t the right kind of vow, was it?

That’s all over now - they’re a  _ them _ now, which suits Sherlock quite well. In fact, he’s wanted them to be a  _ them  _ for a very, very long time. If he’s honest with himself, since well before he had to go off and pretend to be dead while he dismantled Moriarty’s network. If he’s less honest with himself (which he usually is), since he came back and found John in the arms of another woman. He deduced it at John’s wedding (of all places to deduce himself in love, doing it in front of the man in question on his wedding day was not, he concedes, an ideal). He finally found a name for the itchiness he experienced all under his skin and, mostly, in his heart. The name was  _ love  _ and the solution was nonexistent, so he threw himself into doing what he did best and worst - making John happy. 

He grappled with hiding it from John for a long time, too, until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He knew he had to tell John, but couldn’t figure out how. His refusal to engage in social niceties and sentimental conversation left him without precedent. One day, though, John came over and Sherlock seemed to just have to say it. He holds that memory very dear in his Mind Palace, turning it over on the days when John isn’t around, just to prove to himself that it’s real and it happened and that, yes, John is coming back to him.

It’s into this well-worn memory that he finds himself sinking once John leaves for work that day:

It was a Saturday. He only knew it was a Saturday because Mrs Hudson had gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and had left early that morning, delivering his morning tea much earlier than usual. She didn’t wake him, but the temperature of the tea and the angle at which the rug on the landing was tilted had alerted him to her time of departure. The sun was weak through the windowpane and he knew it was going to be a miserable day.

As was his usual routine, he drank the tea in his chair and thought about his next experiment. He remembers wanting to work more on his ash analysis, something which John had been teasing him about of late. His thoughts, as usual, wondered to John, and where he was, and what he was doing. That day, the ache in his heart was especially vivid, as though it knew, somehow, that it was to reach its peak. He wonders, now, from this distance, if that’s true. If the ache really was worse, or if he just remembers it that way armed with the knowledge he has now. Regardless, in his Mind Palace, on the first floor, he feels it: the dull ache in his heart, his heartbeat barely slogging by under its weight. In the days since that one, Sherlock has come to realise how close to relapse he was. He didn’t admit it then - not even to himself - but he was teetering on a very dangerous ledge. He had no cases, no John, no hope. He hadn’t yet bought the supplies, but he kept scrolling through his contact list, pretending not to decide on which dealer to use. 

Just as he was in his deep contemplation of all things John, the man himself burst into the sitting room, looking startled, for some reason, to see Sherlock, where he usually would find him - in his chair. He stood in the doorway, hesitating.  _ Oscillation on the pavement always means- _

“You’re here,” he said.

“I’m here,” Sherlock replied, confused. 

“May I-” John gestured to his chair at the same time as Sherlock did and said,

“Sit down-”

And they smiled at each other.

The look of relief on John’s face was palpable. His hair was slightly messy, indicating that he had thrown on his jumper with much less care than usual. He had a tiny dab of toothpaste on the right corner of his mouth which Sherlock ached to lick away. He was also panting, hard, which didn’t quite fit the description. Was he in trouble? His posture, however, and facial expression indicated a modicum of ease. 

He was, as always, a mystery which Sherlock could try, on the surface, to solve, but could never really unravel. Not fully. Something warm and not unwelcome filled his belly, and he knew, right in that irrelevant, inconsequential moment that he had to tell John. He had no choice, not after all this time. He knew, God knows he knew, how risky it was to reveal the information and potentially lose John as a friend, but he had to be faithful to his heart for once, and give himself this gift of truth and letting go. 

And so he buckled down and said, “I should say-”

But of course, John also chose that moment to say, “Sherlock, there’s somethi-”

And they both smiled again, Sherlock chuckling a little as John rubbed a hand against the back of his neck in that awkward gesture he always seemed to adopt when he was at a loss as to what to say. He gestured for Sherlock to continue.

“I feel… things. Deeply. More deeply than I’d like to admit, even to myself at times. I feel all kinds of things, actually, more things than is strictly necessary for a human man to feel, in my opinion. That is to say, well, if I had to put it in a way that could be understood or expressed in words, I suppose what I’d say is that I feel  _ something  _ or many things, if I’m being congruent, which one should always aspire to, so I’m told, although I don’t find it’s always the case that it’s well received. Regardless, I’m aiming for congruence now, although-”

“Sherlock,” John blessedly cut off his rambling. He looked open, soft. Inviting, somehow. He leaned his weight to his right, resting his elbow on the well-worn armrest of his red chair. “What is it you’re trying to say, exactly?”

“I… you.” 

At John’s confused expression, Sherlock gestured between the two of them, as though that would clear it right up.

“Yeah, you’re going to have to give me more than that,” John huffed, sitting back up.

“I’d like it if. If, somehow, we were to be more than… more than friends. If- if you’re not amenable, I’d completely understand, I just- it’s just been a long time that I’ve been feeling this way, and it’s not every day you get to say something, tell the truth, and I thought, since you’re here, and I’m here, this is a perfect opportunity, well not perfect per se, considering the weather isn’t as-”

“Sherlock. You’re doing it again.” John’s face was kind, and warm.

Sherlock exhaled. “I feel things… for you… not just friendship… something… else.”

John puffed out a, “Yes.”

Sherlock’s head snapped to attention, his brow furrowed. “Yes?”

“Yes,” John said, and started chuckling, his eyes glistening suspiciously. He leaned forward in his chair and crossed the miniscule space to take Sherlock’s face into his hands, cupped his jaw and rubbed his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones at the same time as his eyes were imploring, asking,  _ Yes? _ , with Sherlock’s only answer echoing John’s:  _ Yes.  _ And John surged forward and captured Sherlock’s lips in his.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, the memory fading away for now. Something feels… wrong. Something he can’t quite put his finger on. Something he didn’t say or neglected to do. That moment, so many weeks ago, yet so fresh. He can’t exactly pinpoint it. He wishes John was here, so he could ask him, but John will only be home later, and he can’t wait that long, the nagging feeling tearing at him like a puzzle waiting to be solved. A string on a long thread with the ending nowhere in sight quite yet. What would John say? Probably something about sentiment. Something ridiculous and romantic and over-the-top probably and - 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Sherlock knows what he has to do. Just like that, the cogs can grind to a halt and the clarity he craves comes upon him.

He spends the rest of the day in a state of suspended bliss, waiting for John to come home so that he can right what he got so very wrong. What he omitted in his excitement. There’s always one deduction that’s left hanging, too late. He won’t let it be this time. 

At exactly the expected time, John opens the door downstairs. From his tread, Sherlock can tell he’s tired and just a little bit grumpy. When he reaches the top of the stairs, however, he offers Sherlock a wonky, fond smile. Sherlock steps aside and waits for him to change and wash up from his shift. 

“Anything on?” John questions at Sherlock’s rigid frame still lurking in the doorway.

“I love you,” Sherlock blurts out. 

John stands still, shock passing across his features, but soon settling into something entirely different, something that makes Sherlock want to say it again.

“I never said. I meant to say. Thought I did, actually, but… Well… There it is. Just do.”

“Alright,” John says, his posture relaxing. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his, bringing him forward so their lips are barely touching. “I love you, too.”

Sherlock closes the miniscule distance and seals it with a press of lips.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

They have been reading together in the living room for a long while, John in his chair and Sherlock tucked into his. The late afternoon light is slanting in through the sheer curtains and it’s creating a halo effect around Sherlock and his chair. The air filtering in through the window is warm and assuring, reminding him of life that goes on, even when they can’t go on with it. 

Sherlock’s legs are folded underneath him and he looks so much at peace that John can’t stop glancing over every now and then and grinning. That, and John’s novel is utterly uninteresting. This is the curse of being in Sherlock’s acquaintance: crime novels can never live up to the real thing. John finds himself wondering why the detectives in his stories don’t simply figure it out from the clues with a stunning series of deductions, coat flaring around them as they spin, wild with glee. He supposes he’s been spoiled by a certain someone. He looks up at the man in question and smiles to himself once again.

“I can feel you doing that, you know,” Sherlock’s baritone grumbles as he flips a page and reads on, frowns and flips back to the previous page. He has been doing that a lot, John notes.

He continues to look. Because he’s allowed to. Because Sherlock belongs to him and him to Sherlock now, in a way they’ve both wanted for a very long time and only recently have gotten. Because they love each other, and they’ve told each other so. Because he, for one, will never stop loving the man before him.

“I know,” he replies. Noticing Sherlock’s book, he frowns. Although they’ve been reading for a long time, Sherlock has barely made progress. The title, too, alarms him a little bit, but only because he knows Sherlock so well.

“What’re you reading?” he asks, putting his own book down and walking over to Sherlock’s chair. He sits on the armrest as Sherlock closes the volume with a sigh, holding his finger in the page he’s busy with.

John plucks the book from his hands and studies the cover.  _ Pragmatics of Human Communication. _

“What is this?” He nudges Sherlock with his elbow.

“Mmm. A book. Obviously.”

“I see that.” He glances at the cover again. “‘A study of interactional patterns, pathologies, and paradoxes’. Not your usual fare, that.”

“I’m… branching out.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock agrees on a sigh. 

“What’s this about, then?” John asks softly, after a beat.

He leans in closer, reaching for the book to set it aside, on the other armrest, and faces Sherlock again. He slowly strokes the hair off his forehead, wondering how exactly he got so lucky. It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to uncurl himself from the chair, a clear invitation that John gladly accepts. He slowly slides down from the armrest and onto his lap, enjoying the now familiar sensation of being surrounded by Sherlock. He leans forward to ghost his breath over Sherlock’s cheeks, before kissing him on the nose, once, twice.

“Communication,” Sherlock whispers.

“Got that part, yeah. Why are  _ you _ reading it?”

“Trying to understand…”

John settles his weight more evenly over Sherlock and slides his lips over his, back and forth, giving him time to explain further. There’s no rush. They have all the time in the world to build their own world, the one with the back and forth that’s said without saying much of anything.

“Being in a relationship is something new to me, as you well know.”

John pulls back to offer Sherlock a quizzical look. “What, seriously?”

Sherlock offers his own quizzical expression in return.

“You’re reading this because of our relationship?”

“Among other things, yes,” Sherlock says, burying his head in the crook of John’s shoulder and rubbing his cheek against John’s shirt.

“Well,” John’s heart sings as he picks up the book again and opens it to the page Sherlock was on, “What’s it say?”

“Mmm. A lot of things.”

“Let’s see here. ‘To summarise, a metacommunicational axiom of the pragmatics of communication can be postulated:  _ one cannot _ not  _ communicate _ .’” John frowns down at the page. “What’s that mean, then?”

“I think,” Sherlock says, “it means that it’s impossible not to communicate - that every action or behaviour is a communication in and of itself.”

John leans in again, brushing Sherlock’s lips with his own. “Is this a communication?” he asks, faking innocence.

“Mmm. Yes, I believe so.”

John outlines Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, pausing on his cupid’s bow to lavish attention there. “This?”

“Y-yes, in my estimation, the authors would most certainly agree that it is.”

He loves seeing Sherlock like this: so affected by the slightest amount of affection. John has his full attention, and can shift it anywhere. Finally, he leans in and kisses Sherlock, slowly, teasingly, adding heat to the moment by lifting Sherlock’s sleep shirt and pressing his body-warm hands against his chest. “How about that?” he asks when he pulls away slightly. “Was that a communication?”

“I haven’t gotten to that part in the book,” Sherlock replies with a scoff, haughty, but lacking the heat to pull it off in his current position. 

He looks John in the eyes, full of mirth, as John huffs out a short laugh at first and then begins to giggle in earnest. Their joint laughter fills the air around them, cocooning them into a little paradise that they’ve created for themselves inside their flat, where everything that’s going on outside has no place for now. In the ordinary, everyday moments is where they find these opportunities, and John couldn’t be more grateful if he tried. He knows that this time in history has presented a strain on their still-new and sometimes fragile relationship, but, in truth, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He thinks they wouldn’t have been able to get through it if they hadn’t been  _ this _ .

“Show me some more ways of communicating,” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear, before pausing to suck at the soft skin of his lobe. “Maybe some that the book doesn’t cover?”

Sherlock answers with a shiver. “Gladly.”

This, John thinks, is something they both know how to do. Show each other, without words, how to communicate. Speak into the other’s chest and stomach and thighs. Pant into necks, arms, temples. Surround each other with love, passion, and, above all, constancy. 


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock knows something is wrong the instant John opens the door.

“Tell me,” he says, putting the fingers he’s experimenting on aside.

John smiles at him, hanging his coat up with a sigh, “Jane caught it.”

“Caught wh-” Sherlock begins before sighing, too. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Oh.”

“How much contact have you had with her?”

“We saw each other here and there yesterday, nothing much.”

“But still,” Sherlock finishes for him.

“But still.”

They look at each other for a long time. Usually John has already kissed him a couple times by now, telling him about his day and enquiring about his in return. But with still no kissing happening, Sherlock already hates every second of it.

“It’s just until we’re fixed,” John continues, heading for the kitchen. 

Sherlock watches him as he pours himself a glass of water only to wash it right away as well as his hands for long seconds. John has been, ever since the beginning really, more than careful about everything, and Sherlock had made sure to follow his example. Since he barely leaves the flat, he knows he’s much less at risk, but it reassures John to see him do so. 

“But in the meantime,” John says, walking back towards him, “we’ll have to respect social distancing.”

Sherlock chuckles at that for a second. “You’re not serious?”

“I am.”

Sherlock studies his face for a moment. “John, we can’t.”

“Of course we can, love. Lots of people are doing it. We’ll just need to avoid touching each other for a while.”

“John, we sleep in the same bed,” Sherlock points out, one fact among many.

“I’m sorry, love, but I’m gonna have to take the bedroom for a couple of weeks. We need to stay in different rooms until we’re certain.”

“A couple of weeks? This is ridiculous, I don’t care if you’re sick, even less so if I am,” Sherlock says.

“Well, I do care,” John replies, sitting in his chair. “A lot. We have no idea what this virus can do to either of us, and we have to be careful.”

“John, do you expect to clean everything you touch?”

“I intend to try, yes,” John says, sighing again. “Listen, this has been a tough day. In fact, I’m going to take a long shower and probably go to bed early.”

“But Joh-”

“Please, love.”

Sherlock sighs, deciding he’ll convince John at one point or the other anyway. He comes up with a dozen new points in his favour while John showers but, by the time he comes out, it looks as if John’s worry has only grown while being alone in there. Lost in his own thoughts, he pours himself a cup of tea only to let it get cold while getting sheets and a pillow for Sherlock. 

Deciding against any form of convincing tonight, Sherlock offers, “Do you want to watch something tonight?”

“That would be lovely,” John smiles, “but I’m really too tired for anything tonight.”

Sherlock nods, swallowing back the words stuck in his throat. Even if he doesn’t understand John’s rather intense worry, he knows he needs to accept it. And so he watches John’s wave with a smile, and hates more than anything how he is not kissing him right now. 

* * *

The first week is _not good_. John barely comes out of the bedroom, except to shower or get food which he doesn’t even eat at the table but back in the bloody room. Sherlock tries different tactics, uses various excuses and even once waits for John completely naked in the morning. This only results in listening to John pleasuring himself in the shower afterwards, which, while pleasant, is definitely not what Sherlock had planned for. 

So, by the time the second week begins, Sherlock decides to try a different approach. He waits until he hears John wake up in the other room and goes sit in his chair. As expected, John stops on his way to the sink, eyeing him.

“You’ve made breakfast?”

“I thought we could eat together,” Sherlock replies.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Before you say anything,” Sherlock stops him, “I’ve thought about this. I am going to eat my breakfast right here, and you can sit in the kitchen. No contact, much more than one meter away and I’ll clean everything afterwards. It’ll work.”

John sighs.

“Please, John, can we at least try?”

“Yes, sorry, yes,” John says, smiling at him. “Thank you.”

Sherlock can’t help but feel proud, and for a second or so he finds himself unable to say anything. It feels as if it’s been ages since they’ve actually talked, but John, being his wonderful self, is already asking him if he’s working on case, and Sherlock _loves_ him so deeply that it aches.

It becomes their new ritual, eating together this way. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are now Sherlock’s favorite parts of the day and he waits eagerly for them. John is now fully committed to the new case, sometimes leaving notes he’s written for Sherlock to see. They solve it within three days, John’s excitement making the whole process even better.

“I wish I could be kissing you right now,” he says as Sherlock finishes sending notes and evidence to Lestrade.

“Four days,” Sherlock says, looking up at him.

The said next four days felt like agony. Despite the moments they managed to spend together, Sherlock can’t help but suspect that time is suddenly going slower. John doesn’t ask about the sudden missing clocks or timers around the house one morning and Sherlock silently thanks him. He tries to busy himself in any way he can when John has to go back to his fortress, but by the end of the third day, nothing can actually help. And by the look on John’s face at dinner, Sherlock has no doubt he now hates their bedroom arrangement.

“Does one more day really matter?” Sherlock blurts out when John is about to retreat.

“God, no it doesn’t!”

Before there is anything Sherlock can do, John is right up against him, mouth hungry and warm against his. It takes another second or so before Sherlock can react and for a long moment there is only heat and passion. Sherlock’s hand travels up and down John’s body as if to learn it again, searching for any changes to commit to memory. 

“I’ve missed this so much,” John pants between two kisses. “Missed you so much.”

Deciding they really don’t need to waste time _talking_ , Sherlock kisses him some more, slowing things down. John catches on immediately, the hand currently on Sherlock’s lower back now stroking softly. And this is what Sherlock missed the most, just the feeling of John’s presence overwhelming him, taking over everything else, and letting himself drown in it. And so, without another word needed, they discover each other all over again. He lets John undress him piece by piece only to do the same with shaking hands. John doesn’t drag them to bed and Sherlock doesn’t complain, here and there is absolutely perfect as long as John keeps kissing and stroking and panting. 

Because it’s them and Sherlock wouldn’t want them any other way, the slow and soft turns back to heat and passion the second John is inside him, neither of them able to control any of it. Sherlock moans and cries out John’s name until he’s so close that it almost aches not to be coming. But John, wonderful, breathtaking John kisses him while pushing once more into him and they’re both finally finding their release. 

“I love you,” John whispers right onto his skin.

Sherlock hums and holds him closer, finding it hard to talk just now. He needs a bit more of this, right there, and maybe later he’ll tell John just how much he loves him back. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a collaboration between both of us - we wrote a sentence each at a time. Enjoy!

“Please tell me you’re not going to wear that today of all days?” John asks when Sherlock emerges from the bedroom.

“Problem?” comes Sherlock’s nonchalant response.

“Let’s see,” John replies, unable to stop himself from smiling, “Mrs Hudson strongly implied she would visit today, Lestrade also mentioned a case that he would like you to take a look at… oh, and your parents said they were video calling tonight. But sure, no problem.”

Sherlock saunters towards his chair, pretending as though none of this bothers him, but John can detect the slight hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” John asks, eyes roaming all over Sherlock’s body. 

“Yep.” Sherlock pops his  _ p  _ at the same time as he crosses one toned, stockinged leg over the other and begins to rub his thigh.

John bites down on his lower lip. “You’re a menace, Sherlock Holmes, has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m sure I’ve absolutely no idea to what you’re referring,” Sherlock sniffs haughtily, curling his hand up to mock-examine his fingernails.

“This isn’t going to work,” John says, getting up from his own chair. “You’re not going to play me that easily.”

Sherlock ignores this in favour of running a hand from his calf all the way up to his thigh, slowly, tauntingly, pausing only to look up at John from under his eyelashes with  _ that look _ , the one that John knows means only one thing.

“Christ,” John curses, forcing himself to look away. “Not sure everyone is going to enjoy the view as much as I do, but your choice, love.”

“Their loss,” comes Sherlock’s reply as he continues his stroking and staring up at John.

John heads for the kitchen to busy himself with the dishes and turns his back to Sherlock, knowing perfectly well it won’t stop him from fantasising about all the things he could be doing to the ridiculously gorgeous man. 

“John,” Sherlock moans, and John turns just in time to see him sitting in his chair with his legs thrown carelessly open, rubbing himself through his black pants, mouth wide and head slightly thrown back.

“What do you wanna have for lunch?” John tries, definitely not looking any longer than necessary. 

“I have some ideas…”

“I was thinking I could try that recipe Molly told us about.”

John has no choice but to turn back to Sherlock as the man moans again, this time with his other hand on his nipples, roaming desperately all over his chest. He closes his eyes, stopping himself at the last second from rubbing his own hardening cock through his jeans. When he opens them again, it doesn’t help matters that Sherlock now has one hand inside his pants and the other over his mouth, muffling another groan.

“I hate you,” John pants, not meaning a word. He hastily presses a hand to his own bulge to adjust and turns around, resolutely ignoring his every instinct to  _ run _ , not walk, over to Sherlock’s chair. “Ok, let’s see if I have everything… Not sure I can go to the shop in this state, thank you very much.”

He hears Sherlock’s breath stutter and, as he turns, he wonders what on earth he’s doing to himself this time. He can’t help but moan, watching intensely as Sherlock slowly removes his pants, mouth watering. He’s sat in his chair in nothing but stockings, and John knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s the single hottest thing he has ever seen. And so, not even mad about losing his own bet, he heads over there when suddenly...

“I told you,” Sherlock says as he stands up, holding his hand out, presumably to collect his payout. “You can’t go more than a day without sex any more than I can.”

“Don’t care,” John groans, already removing his jumper and shirt. “Sit. Back. Down,” he commands, and Sherlock complies quickly.

Sherlock looks all too pleased with himself as John finally gets his jeans off, but John kisses the smile away. He removes his pants quickly without breaking the kiss, moving forward to straddle Sherlock on his chair. Sherlock’s hands are already all over him, rubbing and tugging, and John reaches for both their erections with one hand. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Sherlock scolds, “Not so fast.”

“You don’t get to decide here, not after that little show.”

Sherlock throws his head back, acquiescing. John kisses the offered neck with something close to adoration, hand moving over them both. 

“John,” Sherlock huffs out, lifting his pelvis off the chair as far as he can manage with John on top of him.

“I’ll get my revenge for this, you know, that right?” John pants, already feeling the first tremors of orgasm. 

“I’m counting on it,” Sherlock moans out as he comes first, spurting over their joint hands and torsos. 

There’s nothing John can do but follow him, his entire body shivering. 

Afterwards, he leans his forehead against Sherlock, panting while he reaches behind him to rub at Sherlock’s stockinged leg, the smooth nylon and the rough lace forming a nice contrast. 

“Did you have these hidden somewhere all this time?”

“Mmm. Ordered them online right after we made our bet,” Sherlock says, face serious until he catches John’s eye. 

“Maybe we should place bets more often then,” John smiles.

They look at each other for a while and then, almost as suddenly as their releases came, they start giggling. 

“As much as I am enjoying this,” Sherlock says, “You were absolutely right about Mrs Hudson, and I believe she’s on the stairs right now.”

John jumps up, grabbing Sherlock by the hand at the same time and dragging him through the kitchen. 

“I thought you didn’t mind them seeing me like this?” Sherlock teases when they reach the bathroom.

“Love?”

Sherlock hums, smirking.

“Do shut up,” he smiles as he taps Sherlock lightly on the bum.


	14. Chapter 14

John buys the toy three weeks after getting together with Sherlock. He hides it in a drawer and doesn’t think about it for a little while. He doesn’t want to take it out too soon. He knows they need to establish trust first, which they do over and over again, until John finds himself thinking of the toy more and more often. At first, he wonders how to bring it up, if he should talk about it with Sherlock first or surprise him. Surely the last option would add to the pleasure, but the building up could also be quite nice.

It then end, it’s Sherlock who finally, one late night in bed,sags, “Just ask me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You’ve been overthinking something,” Sherlock continues. “Every time we have sex, you go inside your head just for a minute but never say anything.”

John finds himself blushing a little. “Do I?”

Sherlock nods, one hand coming to trace patterns on John’s naked chest.

“So what is it?”

John clears his throat, glancing at his sock drawer.

“I bought something.”

“Something?”

“For us to use,” John adds. “Maybe?”

Sherlock watches him closely, “To use? Together?”

John nods, embarrassed before smiling as Sherlock’s cheeks turn bright red. Oh, he thinks.

“Should I take it out?”

Sherlock isn’t speaking anymore, simply nodding. John can feel his eyes on him all the way to the drawer and back to bed. The toy is still in its box, and even though John knows this one will please Sherlock a lot, he’s still a bit nervous as he opens it. Sherlock gasps at the sight of the long, curved toy, and John can feel his cock hardening already.

Nothing compared to Sherlock already lying on his back, legs spreading open. Strangely silent now, they get into motion in unison, John first getting Sherlock open with fingers and lube. Only when Sherlock is a moaning mess does he lube up the toy, too, and so very slowly push it inside Sherlock.

“Oh,” is all that Sherlock breathes out, eyes closing.

John watches closely, pushing in and out slowly at first and then faster and deeper with each encouraging moan from Sherlock. 

“So,” John says, out of breath, “good idea?”

“John,” Sherlock gaps, “I-”

“I knew something was off the moment we walked into that store,” John continues, unable to look away from Sherlock’s wide eyes. “You couldn’t stop looking.”

“John, John.”

“You played it cool and all, talking to that suspect but you just couldn’t stop looking.”

John pushes a bit deeper and Sherlock moans louder. Despite it all, John is still a bit surprised to be honest with Sherlock’s every reaction. Now a complete mess of limbs and cries on the bed, Sherlock can’t seem to be able to say anything but his name, and John’s senses are on fire.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, arching on the bed. John can feel the vibration in his hand, all the way to his upper arm. He wonders what exactly Sherlock is feeling right now because, damn, it looks absolutely amazing. He finds himself hoping they’ll be able to do it again but the other way around soon.

John tries to contain his own pleasure, not wanting to come just at the sight of Sherlock. He isn’t sure whether he’d like to make him come like this or stop and fuck him properly. He knows he will be coming in a matter of seconds, but Sherlock is fairly close too, considering the tremor in his body.

“What do you want?” John finally asks, because there is no way he can make this decision alone. “Tell me, love.”

“I- John.”

“I want to be inside you,” John pants, leaning over just enough to kiss him. “But watching you like this is also so perfect.”

Sherlock kisses him back with such hunger that John almost collapses on top of him. Sherlock cries out, loud, and John knows it is now or never. He pulls away and thrusts into Sherlock right away. The sudden change in Sherlock’s moans is all the validation John needs.

“Oh fuck,” he cries out. “So perfect.”

Sherlock comes first, arching beneath him, and John is quick to follow. He properly collapses on him afterward this time, breathing hard into Sherlock’s neck. It takes another long minute or two before Sherlock can finally talk again.

“Always so surprising.”

John smiles, kissing the tender skin offered to him.

“I didn't think you’d remember,” Sherlock continues. “A five year old case.”

“Sherlock, love,” John laughs. “Five years ago, I was already madly in love, so yeah, I remember perfectly well watching you eyeing sex toys.”

“I wasn’t eyeing them.”

“Right,” John mocks him. “So I should throw away the toy.”

Sherlock groans, “Don’t you dare!”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

John is making the toast and tea for their breakfast routine when Sherlock walks out of the bedroom, already dressed. John is surprised; Sherlock doesn’t usually put on a full suit - including jacket - every day. Most times, he stays in pyjamas and throws one of his many gowns over, much to John’s chagrin. He prefers it if they put their day clothing on, if only to feel more normal for a while. Sherlock, however, even in the old world, used to sometimes stay in his pyjamas for days on end when there wasn’t a case on and he was bored. Now, though, he rarely puts a suit on, and never with the jacket. Not to stay at home, anyway. John’s hackles are raised at the mere thought. He senses danger, the faint alert ringing at the back of his mind. He’s tuned enough to Sherlock’s ways to know that he’s probably right. 

“No breakfast for me, darling,” comes the gush of words as Sherlock glides past him with a peck in his general direction and into the living room. When he reaches the door and pulls his coat off the hook, the hair on the back of John’s neck stands up.

“Where are you going?” he asks, aiming to keep it light and failing completely. He stands in the doorway of the living room, one foot in the kitchen, the other in the room, straddling the line.

“Out. Molly has a body she wants me to examine. Could be interesting.”

Sherlock doesn’t look him in the eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the carpet between them, meaning he knows that what he’s doing is something he shouldn’t be doing. Infuriatingly, that isn’t stopping him from trying to do it, however.

“No,” John counters, calm, but firm.

“No?” Sherlock’s face scrunches up as he finally meets John’s eyes. The look is familiar and practically yells out his pique. 

“No. We talked about this.”

“Yes, we did. I promised I wouldn’t sneak out. I haven’t. I’d hardly call this sneaking, John. I’ve been completely upfront about where I’m going and why.”

“You promised you wouldn’t go out unless it was absolutely necessary. _We_ promised that to each other, remember?”

“This _is_ absolutely necessary.”

“No. It isn’t. Molly can send you pictures, and you can help from here. From home, where we’re meant to be staying.” John is firm, crossing his arms to punctuate his words. 

The toast pops out of the toaster, as though on cue. Neither of them flinches, both leaning into the confrontation with some heat, allowing the tension to mount. They’re both stubborn men. This could be a while.

Sherlock folds his coat over his arm and ruffles his hair in frustration. “You can’t stop me from going.”

“I know I can’t. But I’ve asked you not to. Make of that what you will.”

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowing dangerously. He takes a step forward, crowding into John’s personal space, and not in the welcomed way. “You know me better than that.”

“How’s that?”

“Manipulation. It doesn’t work on me. Stop. Trying.”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you, I’m merely saying-”

“ _Saying_ , yes, that you’ve oh-so-nicely asked me to stay in, and heavily implying that my going against that would cause a problem between us.”

“I never said that. All I said was that I’ve asked you not to go. The decision, ultimately, is up to you, of course. God forbid anybody ever ask the great Sherlock Holmes to do something he doesn’t want to do. Nobody has that right, yeah?”

Sherlock glares at him, mouth forming a hard line. Luckily, John can do this all day. He lifts his chin up, rising to the challenge. 

They’ve faced off this way many, many times before, but this time is different. This time, there’s the undercurrent of their relationship, fragile and fresh, something that needs nurturing still before it can bloom into what it’s inevitably supposed to become. There’s the line they haven’t crossed - not yet. John knew it would have to come sooner or later, but he hadn’t anticipated how awkward it would be. How difficult it is to push back when he’d rather be giving in, soothing, appeasing, coddling. And how much angrier he feels with their new shared history between them. And, yes, he admits to himself, how that anger scares him.

“You can’t control me just because we’re sleeping together, John,” Sherlock says, and it’s cold, so cold that John suppresses a shiver that threatens to run down his spine. 

His temper is flaring, something low and dangerous, something he doesn’t like to let loose around anybody anymore, least of all Sherlock. It reminds him of fists and feet in a morgue. It reminds him of the monster he’s so capable of being. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in. Holds it. Breathes out. Repeats the process before speaking.

“Sherlock,” His voice barely a murmur, vibrating with fury. “Listen to me very carefully. Our sleeping together has nothing to do with this. This is an altogether different argument.”

“So you say, but you’ll continue to use the fact of our… _arrangement_ against me. This is what happens. This is why I never should have-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” John warns, rage almost blinding by this point, gut clenching and unclenching in time with his fists. “You _will_ regret it.”

Sherlock’s mouth shuts closed, but he’s still fuming. John can tell from the way he’s holding his body, tense as though at the ready; for a fight, or to run.

John takes a step forward, causing Sherlock to flinch and move backwards. It’s such a small moment, so small that nobody besides the two of them would ever know what it means or why it happened. His stomach sinks, knowing that he caused that. That Sherlock, on some level, is afraid of him when he’s in this state, and that he has good reason to be.

“Right,” he says decidedly, moving away. “I’m off.”

He pulls his jacket off the hook and marches down the stairs, not even bothering to take his wallet with him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

Sherlock hangs his coat and jacket up and sags into the couch, feeling empty and helpless. He didn’t mean to drive John off - he really didn’t. All he needed was some time and space for himself, to get out in the world and feel like a human being again. To feel like Sherlock Holmes again. Lately, all he has felt is suffocated. Not by their relationship, mind, but by being trapped indoors. Unfortunately, it seems that every form of suffocation seems to trigger his fight or flight instinct. He hadn’t meant to go too far and make John leave. In fact, he’d wanted almost anything but that, which is why he had feigned nonchalance this morning, knowing John was going to be angry that he wanted to go out. He thought, though, that they could talk about it. That he could make John see reason.

He stays on the couch, contemplating all this and more for a long time, resolutely not listening for the door or the tread of John’s footsteps on each of the stairs, or the door to the living room opening and shutting as John walks in.

He hears more than sees John plug his phone in and turn on the speaker. The first chords of the song begin. 

“Sherlock.”

He chooses to ignore him. 

“Dance with me, love.”

Sherlock turns at that, surprised. Hadn’t John been about to leave him? Instead, there he is, holding a hand out in expectation. He hesitates, checking John’s face to make sure. All he sees there is tenderness. He stands, taking the offered hand and allows himself to be engulfed in John’s strong arms. He lets John lead, swaying them back and forth as the words swirl around them. 

_ Feels so good when I’m near you,  
_ _ Holding hands and making love,  
_ _ Oh, baby  
_ _ Yes, oh, baby…  _

Sherlock relaxes into John’s embrace, bringing his head to rest on the shorter man’s shoulder. 

He turns his head to whisper into John’s ear, “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

John turns his head to kiss the apple of his cheek softly. “I’m not leaving.”

“What about when I make you angry again? When I go too far?”

John barks out a short breath at that, a curious almost-laugh. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, pausing their bodies. 

“You killed yourself in front of me and then pretended to be dead for two years while I mourned you. I’d say that’s going too far, wouldn’t you?”

“Your point being?”

John is quiet for a while as he continues to move them together to the steady rhythm. 

_ Yes, oh, baby,  
_ _ Yes, oh, baby… _

Eventually, he leans back a bit and whispers out of the side of his mouth conspiratorially against Sherlock’s temple, “I think if I was going to throw in the towel with you, that would have been it, yeah?”

Sherlock stops moving and separates just far enough from John that he is able to look him in the eye. He finds a soft smile in the aquamarine eyes, fondness, warmth, and all for him. 

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” he says, simple and factual, as the melody swells around them. “And I’m truly happy we’re this. I’m happy I get to be with you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” John coos, pulling him close again. “I love you, too. Always.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches. “Always?” he breathes out. 

John separates them again to offer him a slow, soft kiss on the mouth. After long, honey-filled seconds, he pulls back. “Always,” he whispers into Sherlock’s mouth. 

_ Feels so good walking side by side,  
_ __ Want to be with you all my life,  
_ Oh, baby,  
_ __ Yes, oh, baby, oh…

The last chords of the song fade away, but they stay in the living room, wrapped around each other and swaying long after. 

“You know why I got so angry, right?” John asks.

Sherlock just nuzzles into his neck.

“I was angry,” he continues, “because I’m worried. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re so important to me. You’re the most important thing, in fact, and I couldn’t bear it if I failed to protect you.”

“I see,” Sherlock says.

“You do?”

“I feel the same, and yet I see you go to the clinic every week. It’s hard, but I know you have to do it. It doesn’t stop me from hating it, though, and if given the opportunity, I’d stop you, too.”

John lifts his face by the chin, running their mouths back and forth across each other.

“I just… I wanted to go out for a bit. Clear my head. Be a person again,” Sherlock admits into their shared breaths.

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve made a plan. You know that, love. I’m not trying to keep you here for fun. I just don’t want you to be in any danger.”

“‘M sorry,” Sherlock mumbles after a while.

“Come again?”

“Johnnnn,” he whines, knowing perfectly well that John heard him.

John smiles, and it’s brilliant. It’s all he wants. He captures the smile with his mouth, sighing into their joint lips.

They pull apart after long moments, and John grins up at him, stars in his eyes. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Yes, please,” he answers hastily, all but dragging John towards their shared bedroom as John chuckles behind him.

Once they’re on the other side of the door, Sherlock feels desperate to show John just how sorry he is. No words. Just them.

He starts to undress John, pulling his clothing off carelessly.

“Slow down, love,” John laughs, and Sherlock simply  _ has to _ feel the laugh against and in his mouth, so he surges forward and meets John for a deep, satisfying kiss.

John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, soothing and grounding, as Sherlock grinds up against him and presses them until they fall to the bed together, tangles of limbs, mouths still blessedly connected.

Sherlock hovers above John, pulling back to meet his eyes. 

John smiles, a crooked, sincere, gorgeous thing. “‘Lo, love. There you are.”

Sherlock replies by leaning down for another kiss, crushing and bruising in its intensity.

John grinds up, eliciting a groan from Sherlock’s mouth as he brushes their still-clothed cocks together.

“John, I need… I want…”

John takes his jaw in his hands, just looking, not rushing. “I know what you want.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re looking to have some fantastic make-up sex.”

“Make-up sex?”

“Yeah, the best kind of sex there is.” John grinds their cocks together again, proving his point.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, lowering his voice in the way he knows John responds to. “You may be onto something.” He delves his hands up the bottom of John’s shirt, fingertips playing with nipples as John’s body arches off the bed. The friction is beautiful, but not enough, never enough.

“Johnnnn,” he moans.

“Yes, love, right here.”

“Too much clothing.”

“Hmm. Agreed.” 

John pulls at the hem of Sherlock’s dress shirt, silently willing him to remove it. Sherlock acquiesces, unbuttoning it hastily and throwing it onto the floor, not caring where it lands. “Now you,” he says as he unbuttons John’s shirt, cursing his fingers for not going faster. He pulls John’s shirt open and runs his hands up and down his chest. He unbuttons John’s cuffs. “Off, off, off,” he urges, and John complies, lifting his torso up off the bed slightly to pull his shirt off his arms and toss it somewhere towards the bottom of the bed. Sherlock drapes himself over John’s body, reveling in just the simple contact of their abdomens and chests, skin on skin. He kisses a wet, filthy path from John’s pulse point to his ribs while John squirms under him.

“Take these off,” he grumbles when he reaches the waistband of John’s jeans with his mouth.

After that, it’s teeth against delicate skin, tongues against slick heat, and pulsing into warm spaces. John’s heavy weight in Sherlock’s clever mouth, his deft fingers in Sherlock’s warmth, finishing with the other’s name on their mouths. 

They lie together afterwards, tangled and spent, Sherlock coming back down to himself and John traces lazy patterns on his chest. The sounds coming from below the windows are noticeably more muted than usual.

“So, this is what couples do when they’ve had a row?” Sherlock asks into John’s hair.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, we should do it more often, then.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/works)

They’ve spent the morning devouring each other, frenzied and desperate and a little bit sweet, stale breaths trailing down bodies and hands grasping at bedsheets while the sun slanted in to light everything  _ just so _ . Now, Sherlock is cooling off on his stomach, sheet twisted around one leg while the rest of him remains beautifully on display for John, who is on his side, trailing fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm. 

“Will you ever tell me about it?” he breaks the strangely enchanted silence to ask the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Hmm,” Sherlock huffs, burying his face deeper into the pillow, hiding somehow, or as much as someone can hide while their body remains uncovered.

John hesitates, lets his finger trail onto Sherlock’s back. Traces a particularly vicious scar that looks like a silvery, ironed-in crease from shoulder to kidney. Sherlock shivers under his finger.

“Alright?”

He nods shortly.

John continues his exploration, taking his time, getting to know the marred plains of Sherlock’s body, thinks of the conversations they haven’t yet had, the ones he knows that they will, in time. When his fingers reach the pocked cigarette burns on either side of Sherlock’s spine, he meets them with his mouth, reverently kissing each and every one, taking his time, nowhere else to be but here, right in this moment, tiny pecks on puckered skin.

“God, but you’re beautiful,” he whispers into Sherlock’s vertebrae. “So bloody gorgeous.”

Sherlock squirms beneath his attention, seemingly inviting more, more,  _ more.  _ John is only happy to oblige. He runs his tongue over the raised hacks across Sherlock’s shoulder blades and then blows on the wetted patch of skin, causing goosebumps to rise all across his flesh. He lets his fingernails graze his whole back, from top to bottom, and up again, and down again, and up again. Sherlock is shivering. The sun is hitting his lower back and arse through the window, casting shadows over the rest of him like a delicious feast all for John, just for John, John’s alone. He looks like an artwork this way, a marble statue or something warmer, a gold-tinged romantic era portrait.

John leans down, bringing his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear. “You’re a dream.”

Sherlock turns his head around, faces John now. He looks into John’s eyes, not deducing, not questioning, not asking, just connecting in a way that’s only for them. His eyelids are hooded, catlike in their lazy quality. It’s just them, in this room, at this time. Everything that has come before is inconsequential, even the scars lining Sherlock’s back. What will happen in the future, they don’t know, nor does it matter. There’s no rush of heady lust filling their bodies, making them reckless and impatient with want and need. There’s nowhere to be, nothing that needs doing. It’s just the other person right now, gazing into each other’s eyes, and it’s all they need, really. 


	18. Chapter 18

“Are we really watching this?”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You promised, remember.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Yes, you did. It might have been in the middle of night, but you did.”

“I do not recall, so I’m allowed to say whatever I want.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“...”

“Are we really supposed to believe a squirrel is to blame? Just because he wanted to hide some nuts?”

“Could be right, we weren’t there.”

“John, please, no one was there.”

“Come on, love, I’m joking. It’s a kid’s movie. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“So leaving that… thing behind, alone, is supposed to be fun. And now he’s walking in poop.”

“Rosie seems to enjoy it.”

“She clearly doesn’t understand how inaccurate it all is.”

“Please don’t ruin animated movies for her too soon.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me guess, him and the mammoth are going to be best friends now.”

“You’ll see.”

“The animation is not that great.”

“It’s an old movie.”

“Still.”

“There’s at least four more after this one, you’ll be able to see the changes.”

“Wait, did I promise to watch ALL of them?”

“Maybe.”

“Really, John, I expected more from you. Making me promise such things when I’m clearly not thinking straight.”

“Not my fault if you’re bad at pillow talk.”

“Sorry, I’m usually busy recovering from the orgarms _you_ gave me.”

“Shhh, not so loud.”

“Don’t worry, she’s too engrossed in this. Oh let me guess, he’s going to get struck by lighting.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine, fine. But please explain this to me: why chase after a baby when there’s grown up humans around.”

“It fits the story, Sherlock.”

“John. Did they just kill the mother in a kid’s movie.”

“It often happens, you know.”

“But why?”

“Character building, I guess.”

“...”

“Would a kiss make it better.”

“More than one maybe.”

“That can be arranged.”

“...”

“...”

“Better?”

“Hmmm.”

“Now, what about you snuggle next to me and close your eyes.”

“Finally a good idea.”

“Come here.”

“That baby is rather cute, I admit.”

“Rosie’s cuter.”

“Obviously. Rosie is real, John.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, even when you make me watch… was is it even called again?”

“You know what, why don’t you try and guess. That should keep you occupied.”


	19. Chapter 19

“What will be the first thing you do once you can freely be outside again?” John asks one morning.

They’re still in bed, the sun having just risen, and the flat still quiet. Sherlock considers the question a moment, slowly stroking John’s back up and down. 

“I am not sure.”

John frowns at him, “Really?”

“Yes. You and I both know how viruses work; being allowed to go out doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

John sighs, closing his eyes. “You’re right, as usual.”

“For once I’m not glad about it.”

John chuckles, kissing his neck. 

“I know what I would love to do,” he says softly.

“Tell me.”

“I’d like to go on a case with you, here, in the city. I’d like to see you work that beautiful mind of yours and run across London half-scared of what you’ll do next.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I knew you secretly loved it.”

“I wouldn’t say I love it,” John replies, “but it’s part of the game.”

“John Watson and his love for danger,” Sherlock teases.

“Come on now, tell me what you’d like to do.”

Sherlock sighs, a dozen ideas running through his head. He has been thinking about what he’d want to do since the lockdown had begun, and yet none seem good enough right now. Working a case, yes of course he was craving it, but also simply taking a walk in the park. But mostly, he wants to take a plane far, far away from this flat. Surely he couldn’t say _that._

“Love?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, nuzzling his face against John’s neck. “I don’t know.”

John’s arms close around him, “Hey, don’t worry, it was a silly question. You don’t have to answer.”

“I can’t stand it anymore.”

He can feel John tense a little, but doesn’t let go. “What, love?”

“Here. This flat. These walls.”

John remains silent for a moment and Sherlock can almost hear his thoughts. Just a minute ago he was talking about staying right here. _I’m an idiot_. _I shouldn’t have said anything_. But just the thought of staying locked in here any longer than necessary is making him sick.

“Sherlock, I get it. There were moments when all I wanted was to leave this flat, too. I think most people in the world right now can’t stand their own home. It is not a feeling to be embarrassed about.” 

Sherlock sighs, snuggling closer.

“You know what, why don’t you tell me where you’d want to run off to.” John kisses his head. “Come on, you must have some ideas.”

Sherlock finds himself smiling, “Prague?”

“Sounds nice.”

“Mikkeli. It’s in Finland. There’s more trees than people there.”

“That sounds like the kind of place you’d enjoy for sure.”

“Or Paris. Or Amsterdam. Or Cape Town.”

“Might as well plan an around-the-world trip.”

Sherlock pulls away just enough to look up at him. “Might as well.”

John kisses him softly and just like that they’re already transported far, far from here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter to go! Thank you for all the love on our story!!


	20. Chapter 20

John is hiding something. It is obvious, really. Sherlock may be ignorant on some topics, such as philosophy, astronomy, and politics, but he does know a lot about many things: chemistry, anatomy, botany, sensational literature and the like. But what he knows most of all is this. John. He would know him anywhere, by any sense. And John has been acting… strangely. Something is off. In the past, Sherlock would have suspected that John was about to finally leave, walk out on everything they’ve built because he finds it unsatisfactory, but John has assured him, over and over again, that that’s not going to happen. Sherlock chooses, every day, to trust him. He has no choice, really. The alternative is such suffocating doubt and self-consciousness that he quickly realised that he can not live that way.

No, there’s something else. Something less insidious yet still as earth-shattering. He sees it by the curl of John’s fingers on his left hand; by the way his eyes shift ever-so-slightly to the left when Sherlock asks him a question requiring a factual answer. Where was he the other day, between four and five pm when he was supposed to have left the clinic? Is there something they need to discuss? Why has he been texting Harry more frequently these days? These are questions John answers convincingly enough, but for his little tells. The ones Sherlock would know with his eyes closed.

_ And where is he now? _

Sherlock puts down the book he isn’t reading anyway and glances - again - at his phone. No texts or calls or any kind of explanation. He replays what they talked about last night before falling asleep - maybe John mentioned something he needed to do after work - but nothing comes to mind. He walks to the window, eyeing the street quickly. John’s usual bus was at its stop twenty minutes ago, without John getting out obviously, and the next one should arrive in five, four, three, two, one. There. First to get off is a woman thinking about divorce, the second a couple not wearing their masks and, finally, John. 

Sherlock releases a breath he’s been holding on for too long, watching him closely as John remains standing on the pavement. Sherlock takes a step back, hiding in case John looks up. 

_ What is he waiting for?  _

A few people walk by but John doesn’t seem to care, so he isn’t waiting for someone. In fact, he’s not doing much, simply standing there, both hands in his pockets, face looking down at the pavement. 

Sherlock’s stomach starts to form familiar little butterflies at the sight. He hates to see John this way - lost in his own head. It’s an all too familiar sensation for him not to feel a pang of sympathy. But things have been  _ good  _ lately. Better than. They’ve been communicating their fears and desires, and nothing has come up. Sherlock knows, he  _ knows _ , that this tiresome pandemic and subsequent lockdown aren’t helping anybody’s mental health, but he thought John was in a better space. Well, if he isn’t, Sherlock will do all he has to ensure that they get there again. That John is okay again. 

Suddenly, though, he sees something that disputes his initial hypothesis: a small smile is crossing John’s lips as he takes out his phone and seems to read a text. Interesting. Although. Brief flashes of  _ that’s all it was, just texting… but I wanted more  _ come to mind, unbidden. He tamps them down almost immediately. No. He trusts John. Implicitly. Explicitly. With everything he has, he trusts him. If John isn’t ready to share what’s on his mind right now, he surely has a good reason for doing so. Sherlock just needs to be patient (tedious). Give him time and space to figure out whatever is going on and come to Sherlock with it on his own terms. Sherlock can give him this. He can try.

Focusing back on the street, Sherlock finds it John-free. He rushes away from the window just as the door opens and he takes a seat in his chair.

“Hey, love,” John smiles as soon as he’s inside. 

Sherlock smiles back, inhaling deeply.  _ He can try _ .

“Just gonna shower quickly,” John continues, hanging up his coat. “I was thinking we could order something nice for tonight.”

Sherlock nods.  _ Something nice.  _ That could mean a celebration, an anniversary Sherlock has forgotten, perhaps?

“Everything alright?”

John is now frowning, hand clenching at his side.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Just thinking.”

John breathes out deeply but still smiles as he heads for the bathroom. As quickly as he can manage, Sherlock goes through all major events, both in their friendship and romantic relationship, to make sure today isn’t one of those dates he’s supposed to remember. Nothing. Should he ask? Confess he might have forgotten whatever John clearly seems to have in mind? Surely he would understand. 

“Alright now, I need my kiss.”

Sherlock leaves his Mind Palace to find John in front of him. He’s put on Sherlock’s favourite pair of jeans and a deep blue jumper that makes Sherlock’s heart beat just a bit faster.  _ He’s beautiful _ . Before there is much he can do or say, John is leaning in and kissing him so softly that Sherlock melts just a little in his chair. He pulls him closer until John is all but sitting on his lap, kissing him more deeply.  _ Everything is fine.  _

“What’s going on in that great big head?” John is now teasing him, running his nose back and forth across Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock almost doesn’t answer. John would be fine with that, used to it after years of the same avoidance tactic being employed on him over and over. But Sherlock’s not that man anymore. They aren’t those people. Instead, he answers simply: “You.”

John huffs out a short breath of amusement on a smile. “Me?”

“Of course.” He leans in for another kiss. “You.”

“What about me?” 

“You’ve been… different lately. Distracted. I can’t seem to deduce why. Should’ve asked,, but… old habits and all that, I s’pose. What’s going on?” 

John smiles, stiff and out of place on his face. 

“So?” Sherlock prompts, leaning back in his chair.

“Nothing,” John rushes to reply. “There’s nothing going on, love.”

John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, but Sherlock moves away, narrowing his eyes.

_ Nothing _ . His mind jumps to the texting, John smiling down at his phone. He can’t reconcile that person with the John in front of him now, but John is insisting that nothing is going on. Sherlock knows better. He knows that something is going on, and now he knows that honesty won’t help him figure it out. 

John stands back up, runs his hands over the front of his jumper. “Have you thought about what you’d like for dinner?”

Sherlock considers while John turns away. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, forcing the deductions to come.

Date clothing, phone, texting, smile, pavement, couple without a mask, date clothing, phone, texting, texting, texting -

It’s useless. Sherlock can’t deduct from a safe distance when it comes to John. The cold reason he holds above everything else is too clouded by sentiment. It’s  _ hateful. _ Oh, but it’s so lovely, too. To see John in the morning when he opens his eyes, and to be surrounded by him every night when he falls asleep, too. To be kissed with eyes closed, sincere, genuine. To be loved and to love freely in return. Nothing hidden, nothing to be gained, bar the natural reciprocation that comes naturally with being in a serious, committed relationship.

Because that’s what they have, now, don’t they? A serious, committed relationship. They’re exclusive to one another. They haven’t said as much in so many words, yes, but they speak to each other in other ways. With small touches, soft kisses and lingering embraces. They’re men of few words and fewer declarations. Sherlock has always been fine with that. Suits him, in fact. It’s only when he has these moments of unshackled uncertainty that he wished they had cemented more with verbal proclamations. That they had, even just once, discussed the nature of their relationship in no uncertain terms. He thought he didn’t need to hear it (certainly hadn’t dreamed of having to say it), but maybe he was wrong. Maybe it isn’t enough to imply everything between two sheets. Maybe his book on communication was onto something.

“Sherlock.” 

The one word coming from the one person who could pierce his thoughts. John is looking at him from the kitchen with a quizzical expression, as though he has been calling his name for a while now. 

Sherlock smiles, hollow.

John sighs. “Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

“This?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m an idiot. I can’t outwit the world’s only consulting detective. Wait here.”

John disappears into their bedroom. Sherlock’s heart is beating too fast and too hard and where did all the air go?

Seconds stretches into torturous minutes as he waits for John to reappear. He fights the urge to simply stand up and join him just to finally  _ know _ . And so he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink or breathe, slowly accepting that whatever John will do or say when he comes back, it will be  _ okay.  _

“Can you close your eyes?” comes John’s voice from afar.

Sherlock does as he’s told, mind racing. A surprise. Is that what John has been doing all this time: hiding a surprise? What else would require Sherlock to close his eyes. He can hear John come back to the living room, stand in front of him, breath just a little short. Sherlock inhales sharply. 

“Alright.”

That’s all it takes. Sherlock’s eyes fly open, going from John’s face, to his knee on the floor and the ring in his hand and  _ Oh- _

“Sherlock Holmes, I-”

“John.”

Sherlock isn’t even sure why he said his name, or why he even spoke in the first place, because his mind is blank and his breath is gone and  _ John! _

“Sherlock Holmes, my love,” John starts again, a soft, fragile smile on his lips. “I am the happiest man on earth simply because of you. Please, give me the chance to make you just as happy for the rest of our lives. Please, marry me.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. Opens them. Closes them again. It’s too much. All too much, too soon, too big, too great, too perfect, too overwhelming, too  _ much. _

“Breathe, love,” he hears John say from somewhere very far away.

He opens his eyes again, then his mouth. Nothing comes out. He clicks it shut.

John, casual, stunning,  _ perfect _ , smiles wryly. “Is that a yes?”

Sherlock opens his mouth again. Nods emphatically. Bounces off his chair and into John’s arms. 

John catches him with an exhaled  _ oof!  _ and encircles him in his arms, rubbing soothing circles on his back as Sherlock indulges in bitten-off sobs that sound suspiciously close to hyperventilating breaths. 

They stay that way for a while, John waiting patiently for Sherlock’s breathing to return to normal before he whispers conspiratorially in his ear, “I’m definitely taking it as a yes.”

Sherlock bursts out laughing in relief, joined shortly by John, who pulls him back so they can meet each other’s eyes.

“Yeah?” John asks, this time less sure.

“Yeah. Yes. Of course, yes,” Sherlock manages to get out, leaning his forehead against John’s so he can just breathe the moment in for a while.

John takes Sherlock’s hand in his and slips the gleaming platinum ring on his finger. Sherlock draws his hand up to inspect it. It’s plain, modern, matches him well. It feels lightweight and yet carries the weighty promise they’ve just made to one another. Tears start to re-form in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. John leans forward and kisses them away, kissing a line down Sherlock’s face, urgency suddenly slicing through the moment. 

And suddenly it isn’t enough anymore. Suddenly Sherlock needs  _ more _ , needs John in every way possible, needs to be his again and again. He places both hands around John’s face, catching the reflection of his ring just as he leans down to kiss him deeply. Pushing John properly down until they’re both lying on the floor, Sherlock presses all the wonderful, breathtaking emotion currently rushing through his head and body into the kiss. 

It doesn’t take long for John to catch up, the hands still on Sherlock’s back sliding lower while grinding his hips up. Sherlock groans into the kiss, thrusting back against John’s pelvis and feeling him growing harder. Sherlock knows, here and now, that this won’t last long. They’ll have time to properly make love later, but for now, Sherlock just needs  _ John _ .

“Oh, love,” John pants, teeth grazing Sherlock’s lower lip. 

Half mad with lust, Sherlock all but tears John’s clothes off his body, hands worshipping the naked skin now offered to him. He knows all of John’s body by heart now, having kissed and stroked every inch of him until every part was stored in his mind palace. But even now, he can’t believe his luck, how truly lucky he is to be able to stare and touch John’s body so freely. And the reactions,  _ oh god. _

“Are you just gonna stare?” John teases, currently busy undressing him. “‘Cause I was thinking about doing much more.”

“Oh, were you?”

“Hmm, yes,” John smiles, bringing him back down for another kiss.

As with every time they find themselves making love, it all happens so fast and breathtakingly slow at the same time. Sherlock moans loudly when John pushes into him, but he’s the one in control right now, both hands splayed on John’s chest, and so he stays still for a long moment, simply enjoying it. He knows all too well just how much John loves this.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he moans presently, eyes closed.

Sherlock moves ever so slowly, feeling every inch of John’s cock sliding into him. He knows he won’t be able to go this slow for long, makes sure to let both their pleasure build up and up until he can’t take it anymore. 

“Oh fuck,” John curses when he picks up the pace suddenly.

John grabs him by the hips, eyes wide open this time, watching their bodies coming together again and again. Soon neither of them is really in control, passion taking over. Sherlock can only feel  _ John _ and it is not long until it all takes over, sending him over the edge. He’s barely aware of John coming inside him before he all but collapses onto him.

“I’m also gonna take that as a yes,” John whispers, holding him tightly.

Sherlock looks back at the ring on his finger,  _ a thousand times, yes. _

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispers into his ear. “I cannot wait to call you my husband.”

Sherlock closes his eyes but doesn’t try to chase the tears away. And when John, wonderful, breathtaking John, kisses them all away, Sherlock finds himself believing in a happiness lasting forever wrapped inside John’s arms, the state of the world outside their door be damned. 


End file.
